


Blackberry

by Joyful Molly (erestor)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, F/M, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 23:56:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4119241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erestor/pseuds/Joyful%20Molly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Benham has been ordered to Port Royal to sort out the mess Lord Cutler Beckett has left behind. He's confronted with a web of lies, secrets and a lieutenant who refuses to accept that his captain is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the formidable Eveiya.  
> Illustration by the wonderful Menegroth.
> 
> This story was written for Menegroth.

Mr. Wallace's original intention had been to inform Captain Benham of his visitor's arrival, but as usual he found it difficult to interrupt his captain's word flow.   
  
"Wally, what do we have here?" Benham asked, gesturing at the bookcase in front of him. Mr. Wallace scratched his head. It was always difficult to tell whether the questions Captain Benham asked were genuine or of a rhetorical nature.   
  
"I'd say it's a bookcase, Sir," he finally replied. For the last twenty years he had served Lucas Benham, and was more of a father than a servant to him, which explained the rather informal tone of their conversation.   
  
Mr. Jeremy, midshipman and Benham's secretary, tapped his foot impatiently. "Captain Benham is aware of this piece of furniture's purpose, Mr. Wallace. He wants to know what's _wrong_ with it."   
  
Mr. Wallace considered the situation and eyed the bookcase in question once more.   
  
"It's - empty?"   
  
"Exactly!" Benham cried out, and gestured at the empty shelves. "I'm standing in the late James Norrington's library, and here I have a bookcase without books. Now I'm well aware that Lord Cutler Beckett was a thieving magpie, but I doubt he looted the library."   
  
"One never knows with the EITC, Sir. Maybe he needed the books. To sit on. So his visitors could see him behind the desk, you know."   
  
Benham had to hide a grin.   
  
"Good point, Wally. Mr. Jeremy, which books are missing?"   
  
The young man went through his papers and finally found the list with the books.   
  
"Cookery, gardening, medicine, poetry, romance..."   
  
Benham laughed.   
  
"Imagine Lord Cutler Beckett reading Dante's Divine Comedy while sitting on a heap of coals in hell. I like the idea."   
  
Wallace cleared his throat.   
  
"I suppose it was Lieutenant Gillette who took the books, Sir."   
  
Benham groaned and leaned on the desk.   
  
"Not again! What would he want those books for?"   
  
"Don't know, Sir. Maybe he likes reading them. Some people do, I've heard."   
  
The seaman looked innocently at his captain, but Benham couldn't be fooled.   
  
"With the formidable Mr. Jeremy here we already have an avid reader in our midst, Wally. Not much would get done if I'd spend my days with Shakespeare's sonnets, lovely as they might be. I was told they were, at least. Wally, I'd say I'm a decent chap. There are even people who genuinely like me. So what have I done to Lieutenant Gillette to deserve such treatment? The maps are gone. The books have disappeared. The house is empty. I don't understand it. James always held him in such high regard and sung his praise in his letters. This is ridiculous."   
  
"He sounds like a brute, Sir," Jeremy said, wrinkling his nose. Wallace, who found the midshipman to be rather toffee-nosed, shook his head.   
  
"You know, Sir, I don't think it's anything personal. I guess it's just that you're not Commodore Norrington. I know I wouldn't want anybody to poke around your effects, should anything happen."   
  
"I'm touched. What would you do with them? Put them in a chest and bury the treasure? Future generations would be excited to excavate my stockings and cravats, no doubt."   
  
"Don't know about that, Sir. Might just keep them somewhere safe. But that's just me, Sir."   
  
Benham sighed.   
  
"Sooner or later I'll have to talk to that odd fish. But you came with a message, Wally. What is it?"   
  
"It's Mrs. Turner, Sir. She's waiting outside. And she's armed."   
  
Jeremy paled.   
  
"Good grief! I hope the guards will take care of this!"   
  
Benham grinned.   
  
"Armed? Very good. I find women carrying swords rather attractive."   
  
Wallace, who secretly agreed with Benham, grinned as well, showing large tooth gaps.   
  
"No, Sir. I mean she has the wee one with her."   
  
"The baby? That's what I'd call _heavily_ armed. She isn't crying, is she? I can't deny crying women anything."   
  
"No, she's not. Doesn't look like the crying type to me, anyway. A bit of an Amazon, I'd say, Sir."   
  
"I thought so. Send Queen Antiope in then."   
  
"Aye, Sir," Wallace replied, and hurried to follow his captain's orders.   
  
"Do you wish me to order tea for your guest, Sir?"   
  
Benham shook his head.   
  
"No, Mr. Jeremy. This visit shouldn't last long. Please stay here, there might be some papers to prepare and sign."   
  
"As you wish, Sir."   
  
Captain Benham returned to his seat behind the large desk, and tried to collect his thoughts. He had made captain at a very young age, and while his family's connections had helped his ambitions, the main reason for his success was his original way of thinking and his recklessness in battle. He had repeatedly been declared insane by his peers for his risky actions, yet he had been highly successful. Sitting here in the Caribbean, sorting out the mess Lord Cutler Beckett had left behind, was just another step on the stairway to success.   
  
Or so he had thought.   
  
Upon arrival in Port Royal, he had been confronted with fantastic stories about undead pirates, cursed ships and witches. At first he had laughed, but then he had been shown solid proof and had talked to credible witnesses. This could not be brushed off as mere seaman's yarn. His gnome-like lordship had obviously ruled over this part of the world by his own laws, and every time Benham thought he'd finally reached the bottom of Beckett's cesspool, somebody came along and passed him a shovel to dig deeper.   
  
It was a mess, a disgrace to the British Empire, the Royal Navy and the EITC, and every time Benham visited the garden behind his house to look after his cabbages, he cursed and swore at Lord Cutler Beckett's portrait. At least it kept the crows away, a small comfort.   
  
Benham wasn't quite sure what James Norrington's part had been in all this. He knew him as a man of honour, a bit hesitant in his decisions and probably not as reckless as other officers. Norrington had lacked ambition, but he had been a gentleman through and through. They had been friends, and Lucas Benham wanted to know the circumstances of James Norrington's death. By his orders, Wallace had spent many hours at the local taverns, trying to learn more about the events of the last year. What he learned he reported to his captain, so Benham knew many pieces of the puzzle, but he couldn't see the full picture yet.   
  
There was a knock on the door, and upon his invitation, the maid entered, curtsying.   
  
"Mrs. Turner to see you, Sir," she announced.   
  
Benham rose and bowed; after all Mrs. Turner was the daughter of the late Governor Swann, who had been a friend of Benham's father. She had also been the captain of a pirate ship and was married to the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ , facts Benham had only come to accept after many bottles of whiskey.   
  
"Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Turner. Please take a seat."   
  
"Thank you, Captain Benham."   
  
Elizabeth Turner knew that Benham was not a man to be trifled with. He had a keen mind; the dark eyes were friendly, but alert, and she always felt as if he could look right through her. Unlike James, who had made a point of being dressed perfectly and according to regulations at all times, Benham didn't wear a wig. His black hair was held back in a pigtail like that of an ordinary sailor, the freckles on his nose a stark contrast to his otherwise pale skin. He had what her father would have called "blackberry looks", and HMS _Blackberry_ just happened to be the name of his ship.   
  
To Elizabeth, he looked more like a bird, though - a raptor.   
  
Captain Benham leaned back in his seat and waited for the maid to leave. When he heard the door close, he looked at Elizabeth expectantly.   
  
"Mrs. Turner. What can I do for you?"   
  
Elizabeth shifted the baby from left to right, trying not to drop the small bag she carried. Will was getting heavy, and like many young mothers, she hadn't quite figured out the art of performing deeds with two hands that would normally require three yet.   
  
"I have what you're looking for and I'm here to conclude our transaction. However, I wish to state that I'm not a petitioner, I merely demand what is mine."   
  
"I hope you are not here to claim James Norrington's books, Mrs. Turner. I'm afraid they have disappeared just like the rest of his estate."   
  
"I'm not in the mood for jesting, Captain Benham."   
  
"My apologies."   
  
Elizabeth held up the bag.   
  
"I offer you this in return for my father's estate."   
  
"There is no estate, Mrs. Turner, as has been explained to you several times. I regret this; I wish somebody had prevented Lord Cutler Beckett from his thieveries, but as things are, you are destitute. However, I was under the impression that arrangements have been made for you and your son?"   
  
"Arrangements?" Elizabeth laughed bitterly. "Indeed! A small, draughty house next to a pigsty!"   
  
Benham folded his hands.   
  
"I know you are a woman of great intelligence, so I will not beat around the bush. You have been allowed to live here because my father was a friend of your father, because James Norrington was a friend of mine, and last but not least because I was of the opinion that a pirate ship was not the right place to bring up a child. If I would act according to the law, living next to a pigsty would be the smallest of your problems. Why are you of the opinion that you have any right to make demands, Mrs. Turner?"   
  
Elizabeth chewed her lip. Benham was a clever man; of course her initial plan had been to return to her ship and bring up young Will there, but it wasn't possible. She didn't fear for her own life, never had, but she couldn't put her son's life at risk. Storms, fights - this was not what the boy needed, at least not as long as he was still so small and vulnerable.   
  
"I did what I had to do. And James Norrington was a friend of mine as well."   
  
"Again I have to apologise. I forgot - you were engaged once."   
  
"Indeed. And despite everything James did, I held him in high regard until the end."   
  
Benham smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.   
  
"So he redeemed himself for his sins?"   
  
"He did," Elizabeth said firmly. "In the end he did the right thing."   
  
"Saving your life, you mean? I would really like to understand what happened, Mrs. Turner, and you might be able to help me. What was the sin he committed?"   
  
Elizabeth frowned.   
  
"He allied with Lord Cutler Beckett."   
  
"Why?"   
  
"Beckett promised to make him admiral and drop all charges."   
  
"Why were those charges raised in the first place?"   
  
Will began to stir, and Elizabeth gently rocked her son. The last thing she needed now was a crying baby.   
  
"Because he allowed Captain Jack Sparrow to escape."   
  
"And why did he do so?"   
  
"Because - because Jack's a good man."   
  
"Aha. And who persuaded James Norrington of that fact?"   
  
Elizabeth would always remember the day when James had allowed Jack to flee. He had wished her and Will all the best for their future. How could she forget this? She was still convinced that she had done the right thing, yes, but at times, she felt guilty, and she'd never forget the way James had looked at her in the last moment of his life. Benham knew this, of course he did.   
  
Elizabeth turned her head and looked out of the window.   
  
"A thousand pounds, safe conduct back to Britain for me and my son, exemption from punishment for both me and my husband once he returns and the reassurance that I will never have to see Thomas Gillette again. In return, you will receive James Norrington's personal journal."   
  
Benham tapped his lip with his index finger.   
  
"I wasn't aware that Mr. Gillette was causing you trouble."   
  
"No matter where I am, he's following me around. _'What happened to the commodore, Mrs. Swann? How did he die? Were you there?'_ I have told him what happened, everything, over and over again, but he doesn't believe me."   
  
"I suppose that everybody has a personal interpretation of the truth, and I could well imagine that Mr. Gillette's version clashes with yours. I will agree to your terms, Mrs. Turner, but I have no idea how to keep Mr. Gillette away from you. He's a free man and can do whatever pleases him."   
  
Elizabeth blew a strand of hair out of her face.   
  
"Give him a command! Keep him busy! Aren't you looking for officers? Well, there you have one, and he's just the kind of pigheaded, arrogant fellow the Royal Navy appreciates! Do whatever you have to do, but keep him away from me!"   
  
Benham turned his head to Mr. Jeremy.   
  
"Please set up the necessary papers for Mrs. Turner, Mr. Jeremy. And tell Mr. Wallace to find Mr. Gillette, I wish to talk to him. If he should refuse to follow my order, Mr. Wallace is free to drag him here by his pigtail."   
  
Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. She hesitated a moment, wondering if she should wait for the papers to be signed and sealed before handing the journal over, but she knew that Governor Greene was a man of honour, and she had never heard anything bad about Captain Benham.   
  
"Here - James Norrington's journal. It will explain everything that has happened over the last two years, starting with the day he arrived in Tortuga. Read it carefully, Captain Benham - I dare say you will find the content very informative and useful to put Mr. Gillette in his place."   
  
There was an undertone in the last sentence that gave Benham an uncomfortable feeling, but he reached across the desk and took the bag.   
  
"We will see. Please follow Mr. Jeremy to his office, Mrs. Turner. Good luck to you and your son. Should you ever want him to join the Royal Navy, please don't hesitate to contact me. We always need capable midshipmen."   
  
"I doubt that this will ever be the case."   
  
"A pity. And - Mrs. Turner? I will find out what really happened to James Norrington."   
  
A nod from Elizabeth, a short bow of Benham's head, a whine from the baby, then Benham was alone. He waited a moment before he opened the bag, and had to swallow hard once he held the journal in his hand. The leather was hard from being soaked in saltwater, the pages held together by a blood-stained piece of cloth, probably a strip off a cravat.   
  
"You were always an honest man, James. I trust you to be a reliable witness now. Don't disappoint me, old friend."   
  
Then he began to read.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Word has it a warrant of arrest has been issued for me. That must be a misunderstanding. Of course I expected a court martial after losing the_ Dauntless _, that would be standard procedure. But a warrant of arrest? I have sent out letters to Governor Swann and some friends in Britain. In the meantime, I'll stay here in Tortuga. I have thought of T.G. many times these last days. While I regret his death, he would have probably preferred that fate to being drummed out of the navy. I'm glad that I won't have to bring his case to the attention of the Admiralty. - J.S.N."_ **  
  
** It was an odd feeling sitting in James' armchair while drinking his wine and reading his journal. Captain Benham had no qualms about reading James' private thoughts; after all, his old friend was dead. But he still felt like an intruder in James Norrington's former house, he knew he wasn't welcome. That was not only true for the house, but certainly also for Mr. Gillette, who had been very thorough in his removal of James' personal belongings - even the chamber pot was missing.   
  
"I suppose I should be grateful that he left me the armchair," Benham muttered. Henry VIII. and Richard III., his two bulldogs, blinked, yawned and resumed their naps. Their master gave them a glare. "Thank you for your interest in my investigations, gentlemen. Considering the state of this place, I'm very tempted to have you replaced by two cats; at least they'd take care of the rats. And they wouldn't fart half as much as you do."   
  
Benham tapped his fingers on the armrest and tried to make sense of James' entry. T.G., he assumed, was Thomas Gillette. But why did James think that his second in command would have been drummed out of the navy? What for? He had always praised Gillette as a highly capable officer, an honourable man who took his duties very seriously and was loyal to King and Country. Benham hoped that Mr. Wallace would find the elusive Mr. Gillette soon; there were many questions that he wished to have answered.   
  
So James had sent out letters to his friends, seeking for help. Benham had never received one, nor had his father. God knew that he would have done everything in his power to help. He had been at sea for almost a year; it was possible that James had asked him for help, but that his letter had gone astray. **  
  
**_"Three months, yet not one reply. Have all my letters got lost? Or has everybody turned their backs on me? Lt. G. sent a note from Port Royal that I should stay in hiding, but my funds are running out. Tortuga is filthy, populated with murderers and whores. Not a single man of honour to be found here. I have to find another hiding place. - J.S.N."_ **  
  
** Lt. G.? Gillette? No, that couldn't be, so there had been at least one officer who knew that James was alive and kept in touch with him. But how odd that James hadn't received any replies! Of course there were always cowards who would rather not get involved in such cases, but Benham couldn't imagine that men like Admiral Copperstone or Captain Fields, like himself old friends of James Norrington, would have ignored his cry for help.   
**  
**_"Learned from Lt. G. that Wby., W. and E. have been arrested. How is such a thing possible? Has the world gone mad? W. and E. escaped. I pray for all of them. Have no funds left, started working for the inn-keeper now. No money, but food and rum are free. Found place to stay in the stable. I find the company of the horses preferable to that of the filth living here. - J.S.N. - PS: T.G. is alive. I'm glad to hear he survived, yet there's no place for one like him in the navy. Might suggest to him to leave so he can keep his honour. God knows that compared to the men in Tortuga he's a gentleman. - J.S.N."_ **  
  
** Benham's head ached with tiredness, but he couldn't stop reading. He had hoped to find answers in James' journal, but so far, all he had come across were more questions. The tone of the entries became increasingly desperate. James' usually so neat penmanship became shaky, was at times completely unreadable; a month's worth of entries Benham couldn't read at all. There was page after page filled with nothing but doodles, triangles and drawings of eyes. Some pages had been torn out.   
  
It was obvious James had been in a state of complete drunkenness when he had written them. Benham knew from experience that James became irritated and aggressive when truly drunk, that's why he always enjoyed spirits with measure. Benham shuddered at the thought of what James might have experienced and done while he was drunk as hell in a place like Tortuga. One entry seemed to confirm his worst fears. **  
  
**_"First lice, now scabies. What would you make of this if you knew, T.G.? Still no word from home. I'm on my own now. - J.S.N._ **"  
  
** Benham leafed through the journal until he found another entry that he could decipher, though with great difficulty. **  
  
**_"Was visited by Mr. M. of the EITC. Have never heard of C.B. before, and I had many dealings with the EITC. Lt. G. has petitioned him, and he's willing to support my case if I am willing to support the EITC's fight against piracy. God bless him. - J.S.N."_ **  
  
** God bless _Lord Cutler Beckett_?   
  
"That miserable, sneaky, cunning, calculating, pig-snouted gnome!"   
  
Benham jumped up and began to pace up and down in front of the fireplace, forcing the dogs to move aside.   
  
"God bless Lord Cutler Beckett! _Cutler Beckett!_ I can't believe it!"   
  
He opened the door to the corridor and yelled for his secretary.   
  
"Mr. Jeremy! Mr. Jeremy! In my office! Now!"   
  
Ten minutes later a bleary-eyed and dishevelled looking midshipman stood in Benham's office. God knew he worshipped the ground his captain walked on, but did the man never sleep?   
  
"My apologies for disturbing your sleep, Mr. Jeremy, but this matter can suffer no delay. I need a list of all lieutenants who served here in Port Royal during the last two years and whose surnames start with "G". And I need that list first thing in the morning."   
  
"Yes, Sir!"   
  
"And please tell Mr. Wallace that I want to talk to Mr. Gillette by tomorrow evening latest, or I'll go and look for him myself."   
  
"No, Sir! I mean, yes, Sir!"   
  
"Good. Dismissed and good night."   
  
Mr. Jeremy wished Benham a good night and returned to his room, secretly cursing every lieutenant in His Majesty's Navy, but most of all Thomas Gillette.


	3. Chapter 3

_"Have acted according Mr. M.'s plan. I'm now a member of J.'s crew. For a moment I worried that at least Mr. G. would see through it. I was lucky, though. Lucky? Did I just use this word in connection with swabbing the deck of the B.P.? This is only bearable because I know that I do it to serve my country, and that, one day, this score will be settled. Give God that T.G. never learns of this. - J.S.N."_ **  
  
** "Grandmother is still suffering from gout, but otherwise she's fine. Rebecca has four teeth now."   
  
Mr. Wilkinson's quill filled the laid paper in front of him with Sally's words. His penmanship was neat; he didn't charge too much for his services and sometimes even accepted a loaf of bread or a bottle of cheap wine for his services when a customer had no money. Mr. Wilkinson also had lovely smile, which was the main reason Sally always volunteered to go to the scribe when a letter to her father had to be written.   
  
"Anything else?" Mr. Wilkinson asked, and looked at the girl with an encouraging smile. She fiddled with the fringes on her scarf and thought about it, then nodded.   
  
"Yes. Please tell father that Billy is now helping mother on the market, and that we bought a goat last week. Please also write that we hope he will be home soon, as we all miss him and love him very much and pray for his safe return every day."   
  
The young man nodded and added the sentences.   
  
"Is that all?"   
  
"Yes, Sir."   
  
"If I remember correctly, you know how to write your name, Miss Cotton?"   
  
"Yes, Sir," she said, not without pride.   
  
"Good, here's the quill, please sign your letter then."   
  
Sally took the quill and wrote her name, slowly, in large letters, as a child might have done. Then she returned the paper to Mr. Wilkinson, who sanded the letter, folded and sealed it and wrote the address on it.   
  
"Your letter will leave with the next ship. Once you receive your father's reply, just come and see me, I'll read it to you then. There will be no charge for that, Miss Cotton."   
  
"Thank you, Sir, that's very kind of you. I'll certainly do that. Oh, I almost forgot!"   
  
She reached in the pocket of her apron and took out two apples.   
  
"Mother sends these. Because you were so kind to wait for the payment last time."   
  
Mr. Wilkinson looked a little embarrassed, but he accepted the apples.   
  
"Thank you, Miss Cotton. That's very kind of your mother, but really, it was nothing. Then again, I love apples."   
  
He winked, and Sally blushed. She wouldn't have minded to stay a bit longer, but the next customer was already waiting, so she bid Mr. Wilkinson a good day and left.   
  
A bow-legged sailor took a seat next to Mr. Wilkinson's small desk. It was a hot day in Port Royal, and the man wiped the sweat off his forehead and neck with a large handkerchief.   
  
"I understand you're a scribe, Sir?"   
  
Mr. Wilkinson arched an eyebrow, which gave his face a rather arrogant expression.   
  
"Indeed, I am. That's what's written on the sign outside, right underneath the drawing of a quill and an ink bottle, and the lack of pig-halves and sheep-heads in here implies that I'm not a butcher."   
  
The sailor cleared his throat.   
  
"My apologies, Sir, it's just that I need to have a very important letter written, to a gentleman, so it must be done by somebody who knows what he's doing, you see?"   
  
"Then you have come to the right place."   
  
Mr. Wilkinson opened the lid of his desk and took out a piece of paper. He also reached for a new quill; if the letter was important, he didn't want to risk it being ruined by ink blotches. Once he had everything he needed, he dipped the tip of the quill in the ink.   
  
"Very well then. What do you want me to write?"   
  
The sailor scratched his head.   
  
" _Dear Sir, I desire you to know that I'm greatly disappointed._ \- Is that a good start, Sir?"   
  
Mr. Wilkinson looked up from the paper.   
  
"To the point, I'd say. It all depends on the rest of the letter."   
  
"Ah. Yes. Of course. Greatly disappointed. Then please write that I think he's a gentleman, and that a gentleman would do anything to find out who harmed his friend. I would want to know who harmed my captain if such a thing should ever occur. And write that my captain thinks that Commodore Norrington deserves to have his name cleared."   
  
The scratching of quill on paper halted.   
  
"Please also tell him that-"   
  
"Who are you, and how did you find me?"   
  
"My name's Henry Wallace, Sir. I'm serving under Captain Lucas Benham. One of the maids at Governor Greene's house gave me the tip. You wrote some letters for her. To her husband, Sir. I'm here because Captain Benham wishes to talk to you, Lieutenant Gillette."   
  
Gillette put the quill away.   
  
"I have left the Royal Navy. Lieutenant Gillette doesn't exist anymore. I see no reason for a meeting with Captain Benham."   
  
Wallace sighed. The discussion with the elusive lieutenant would have been less bothersome if he'd had Mr. Jeremy for company. Winding the midshipman up was fun, and he would have probably found better words to convince Lieutenant Gillette that Captain Benham was on his side.   
  
"Sir, I don't think Captain Benham wants to talk to Lieutenant Gillette. He wants two friends of Commodore Norrington to meet, hoping that he can shed some light on the circumstances of his tragic death. That's not a bad thing, is it?"   
  
Gillette clasped his hands behind his back, a gesture Wallace knew only too well. Left the Royal Navy, indeed! If he had ever seen a man with the word "officer" written all over his face, then it was Lieutenant Thomas Gillette.   
  
"Many men have claimed to be Commodore Norrington's friends, Mr. Wallace, and most of them have contributed to his downfall. Why should I trust your captain?"   
  
"Because he's a good man. And because Commodore Norrington was a good man, too."   
  
Gillette didn't answer. The door was open, and he watched the bustling activities on the street. He stood there for a long while, without paying any attention to his visitor.   
  
Wallace thought that Thomas Gillette was a bland looking man, neither handsome nor ugly. His black clothes made him look older than he probably was, and he was a bit stuck-up like most officers in the Royal Navy. Captain Benham would be very disappointed.   
  
"Have you made up your mind, Sir?" Wallace finally asked, getting impatient.   
  
Gillette turned his head and looked at the sailor.   
  
"Would you like an apple, Mr. Wallace?"


	4. Chapter 4

_ "Today, W. approached me. His naivety used to annoy me, but now that he's lost it, I almost miss it. "I suppose you enjoy this," he said. It took me a moment to realise he wasn't talking about holystoning, but E. and J. talking, standing far closer together than would be appropriate. "I can't see why I should find enjoyment in the humiliation of a gentleman," I replied. He was very surprised. "You think I'm a gentleman?" What a silly boy. Would I have left E. to him without a fight if I'd been of a different opinion? "Was it like that for you? Like I feel now?" I had no answer to that. "My apologies for doing this to you, Commodore," he said. Commodore! I told him there was nothing he had to apologise for. - J.S.N."  _ **  
  
** Talking to Captain Benham while he was working in the garden demanded strategic planning from Mr. Jeremy's side. If he didn't want to soil his shoes and stockings, he had to make sure to step only on the stones, not in the mud. Captain Benham looked over his shoulder and grinned upon the sight of the midshipman.    
  
"It's a good thing there's a wall shielding this garden from the view of Port Royal's people, or they would think that midshipmen of the Royal Navy have time and passion for playing hopscotch, Mr. Jeremy."   
  
Jeremy preferred not to comment. He was glad that he made it within earshot of Captain Benham with clean stockings. The captain cheered him on.   
  
"Congratulations, Mr. Jeremy! You made it unharmed this time. I suppose you wouldn't be willing to come here and tell me what kind of slug this is?"   
  
The midshipman sighed deeply.   
  
"If you ordered me to do it, I would, Sir."   
  
"But I won't order you. I'm not cruel. And you will hopefully forgive me for kneeling in the mud and watching slugs. Though a very important lesson could be learned here, Mr. Jeremy: to fight the enemy, you have to know him, and sometimes you will not be able to avoid dirtying your hands in doing so. And the French aside, I know of no greater danger to British cabbage than those bloody slugs here!"   
  
Benham poked the slug in front of him with a stick, but the animal was unperturbed and continued to feast on a cabbage leaf.   
  
"Sir, Mr. Wallace has found Lieutenant Gillette. He's waiting in the drawing room."   
  
"Wally has found him? Wonderful, I knew I could rely on him! But why did you hide the lieutenant in the drawing room? Bring him here; maybe he has greater knowledge regarding slugs than you and I."   
  
Jeremy winced.   
  
"Yes, Sir."   
  
"I see you have objections. Would you share them with me?"   
  
"Permission to speak freely, Sir?"   
  
"Of course, would I ask for your opinion if I didn't want to hear it?"   
  
"For all I know, Lieutenant Gillette is - has been - a very capable officer, no doubt, and he certainly has his merits. However, he is also rather uptight, impolite and - brutish!"   
  
Benham seemed to be pleased.   
  
"Brutish? Wonderful, then he'll certainly know how to get rid of slugs. On your way, what are you waiting for?"   
  
"Yes, Sir," Jeremy replied, and hurried back to the house. Unfortunately he missed the last stone and sunk his left foot ankle-deep in the mud, which made him curse and Benham grin.   
  
_ "I have accomplished my mission. I know I should get some rest, but the faster the heart is out of the pirates' reach, the better, and the sooner I'll be back on my ship. She's called 'E.', so I've been told. I've never heard of her, she must be newly launched. I've been informed that Lt. G. will be my first lieutenant, but I will petition that T.G. will get this position. I still think he's committing a terrible sin, but I have committed worse within these last months. At least I haven't become a hypocrite yet. - J.S.N."  _   
  
Benham stood up and looked down at his breeches and stockings. He probably looked more like a gardener than a captain, but it couldn't be helped. There was no time to get washed, and it would be interesting to see the legendary Lieutenant Gillette's reaction. The backdoor of the kitchen opened, and Benham heard Jeremy, making many excuses for both the place of the meeting and the circumstances.   
  
"Mr. Jeremy, if place and circumstances are considered to be unsuitable by Captain Benham, then Captain Benham should apologise. If he finds them fitting, there is no reason why you should apologise in his place."   
  
An agreeable voice, soft even, which added insult to the injury of the veiled reprimand. Poor Mr. Jeremy, he still had a lot to learn, especially where the nature of officers was concerned.   
  
_ "What have I done? And I had a choice! I could have ended it, stabbed the heart with my sword, but this would have condemned me to take Davy Jones' place. C.B. knew it - it was him who handed me the sword. Why couldn't I find the strength? I should have cut his head off, so I'd never have to see his smirk again! May God forgive me; I never will. - J.S.N."  _   
  
Benham had expected Lieutenant Gillette to be like Wallace: a seasoned seaman, experienced in battle, a bit on the brutish side but with better education and not blessed with a loving heart as dear Wally's. Mr. Jeremy's words, though not without bias, had confirmed this picture, and so Benham was rather surprised when he saw Gillette approaching him. Unlike Jeremy, the lieutenant found his way without problems from stone to stone. Compared to a ship in a hurricane, a muddy garden was no challenge for an officer of the Royal Navy.   
  
Gillette was tall and lithe, his movements elegant, and when he halted in front of Benham, taking off his hat and making a bow, Benham couldn't find anything brutish in his face. On the contrary, he had delicately chiselled features, looked young and very pale for a man who had been exposed to the elements for years. A  pleasing face.   
  
"My name is Thomas Gillette, Sir. You wished to talk to me?"   
  
There were some strands of grey in the red hair, unusual for such a young man. A nice shade of red. Like polished chestnuts.   
  
"What? Oh. My apologies, I was just thinking about slugs," Benham said, embarrassed by both his behaviour and appearance. He suddenly didn't feel comfortable anymore, rather like a large spot of dirt next to the impeccable Thomas Gillette.   
  
"Slugs?"   
  
As he had started this ridiculous subject himself, Benham couldn't back down now.   
  
"Slugs, yes. They are a pest, ruining my cabbage."   
  
"Have you tried beer, Sir?" Gillette asked, his voice not showing even a hint of amusement.   
  
"Beer? Why, do you think I should invite them to the tavern?"   
  
Gillette smiled. A small smile, but a nice one, Benham noticed. One tooth was missing, but the rest seemed to be in perfect condition, a rare thing to find, and probably due to James' obsession with lemons and sauerkraut.   
  
"No, Sir. But that's how my mother used to fight them. Stale beer in bowls, that attracts them and they drown."   
  
"Drowning? That sounds like sound naval advice. Thank you, I will try that. I didn't expect Mr. Wallace to find you so quickly, and while it is up to me to reprimand the men in my services, I agree with you that I have to apologise for my appearance."   
  
Gillette looked uncomfortable, but not insulted.   
  
"I did not wish to interfere, Sir, my apologies. Some habits are hard to beat, especially when it comes to the education of midshipmen."   
  
"Good. So you are willing to talk to a captain in scruffy clothes?"   
  
Any emotion was wiped from Gillette's face, leaving only the mask of a dutiful officer.   
  
"I have seen worse, Sir." **   
  
** _ "T.G. has saved all my effects. All of them, even the books. Especially the books. The maps, even. Has threatened those who wanted to take my things. I found him in my bedroom, packing a sea chest. He has done that for me, after all I've said and done? There were no questions, no reproaches. Has there ever been a man less deserving of such kindness than me? He only said that I needed a bath. God bless his loving heart. - J.S.N." _


	5. Chapter 5

_"T.G. can't accept that the accusations are true. I_ have _allowed J. to escape. S. and I did_ not _interfere. C.B. has been entrusted with this mission by the King. Not complying with his orders would be treason. And then there's E., what if she needs my help? The itching has become unbearable. I've taken to bathing daily, but though I scrub my skin so hard it's bleeding, it doesn't get better. The servants are whispering behind my back. Do they know of my condition? - J.S.N."_ **  
  
** Captain Benham asked Gillette to take a seat in the drawing room, ordered Mr. Jeremy to make sure the former lieutenant wouldn't run away, and hurried up the stairs. He cursed the many buttons on his waistcoat and the uncooperativeness of his cravat, but still he managed to wash, dress and look presentable within ten minutes, a new personal record. Returning to his visitor was a more dignified matter. He wore his uniform; sliding down the stair-rail was out of question.   
  
The door to the drawing room was open, and Benham could see Gillette contemplating the painting hanging on the wall behind the clavichord. Benham could imagine that Gillette must have been a very intimidating officer; he exuded authority. It was part of his personality, quite different from many officers who were like trained poodles. Mr. Jeremy seemed to have noticed the same. He stood next to Gillette, bolt upright and obviously feeling rather uncomfortable. If the silence was anything to go by, the midshipman's attempts to keep up a conversation with Gillette had failed. Benham decided to put the poor lad out of his misery.   
  
"I hope I look more trustworthy now, Mr. Gillette. And I'm pleased to see you're interested in art."   
  
Jeremy breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Captain Benham, while Gillette's only reaction was the arching of an eyebrow.   
  
"With all due respect for the Royal Navy, Sir: in general I can't find that a man's clothes have much to do with his trustworthiness. Indeed, the biggest scoundrels I have met were dressed in silk and velvet. It is true that I admired the painting, though."   
  
Benham narrowed his eyes, clasped his hands behind his back and crossed the room. Jeremy took a step back, knowing well that his captain in such a state meant trouble, usually for unsuspecting midshipmen.   
  
"Scoundrels? You are very bold, Mr. Gillette, very bold! Some might even call you brazen-faced!"   
  
Gillette hinted a bow, and reached for his hat.   
  
"My apologies, how terribly rude of me. Absolutely unforgivable. I will leave your house at once, Captain Benham." **  
  
**_"T.G. has turned down C.B.'s offer to serve the EITC, mocking him in front of several officers as the parvenu son of a draper. T.G.'s words cut deeper and hurt more than my sword could. I admit that I felt satisfaction upon seeing C.B. losing his poise. - J.S.N."_ **  
  
** Benham shook his head.   
  
"Very cunning, Mr. Gillette, but we will not play this game by your rules. That aside you are right with your assumption regarding the nature of scoundrels, and I'd be a liar if I'd say otherwise. Mr. Jeremy, please go outside and check if the grass is still green."   
  
"Yes, Sir!"   
  
The midshipman hurried out of the room, and Benham waited for the door to close before he addressed Gillette again.   
  
"So what are your thoughts regarding the painting, Mr. Gillette?"   
  
Gillette looked down at the two bulldogs who sat in front of him, watching him with great interest. He wasn't perturbed by the sudden change of subject.   
  
"It was painted by a gifted, yet very eccentric artist, and, if you will forgive me my _brazen_ comment, it's not really a painting one would expect in the drawing room of a man in your position."   
  
Benham laughed.   
  
"I know, a life-sized portrait of myself in my dress coat, looking all heroic with the _Blackberry_ in the background would be more suitable. But I'll wait with that portrait until I made admiral, and you must admit that people prefer pies to captains."   
  
Gillette finally allowed himself a small smile. It was surprisingly boyish.   
  
"It all depends on the pie, I'd say."   
  
"Again you are right, Mr. Gillette. It's a blackberry/strawberry pie, and I assure you that it tasted deliciously. I'm rather fond of this still-life; the artist, Edward deVette, was a friend of mine. It reminds me of more carefree and happier times. And now please take a seat, Mr. Gillette, and be at ease. This is not a court martial."   
  
"Of this I'm aware, Sir."   
  
Benham filled two glasses with his best whiskey and offered one to Gillette.   
  
"I hope you will like this one, Mr. Gillette. I'm not trying to poison you; I need a drink, so my generosity is of a rather selfish nature."   
  
Now the smile wasn't boyish, but indulging. Gillette reached for the whiskey, and Benham watched him closely. The young man took a sip and closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the taste.   
  
"Soft and smooth, malty and sweet. Excellent."   
  
Benham was relieved. Gillette had savoir-vivre. He would eat a strawberry by savouring each bite, allowing the taste to linger on his tongue, not stuff himself like a peasant. Had anybody ever had the pleasure of feeding Gillette strawberries? Benham imagined that it would be rather inspiring to see him licking the red juice off his lips. **  
  
**_"He noticed the blood stains on my shirt and yelled at me to stop it. I told him that my bedroom must be cleaned. I'm certain there are bugs and other vermin in my bed. I can't sleep, the moment I lie down, I can feel them crawling over my skin, eating me alive. I have taken to sleeping on the floor. - J.S.N."_ **  
  
** Benham shook his head; just where had that thought come from?   
  
"Mr. Gillette, do you know why I'm here?"   
  
"To save the face of the EITC and the British Empire."   
  
"Yes. The noise produced by Lord Cutler Beckett in this part of the world has been loud enough to be heard in London. Uncomfortable questions have been asked. I'm here to find out what has happened, then fabricate a believable story in which everybody looks good."   
  
"And swipe the truth under the rug in the process?"   
  
"Indeed."   
  
"You admit it?"   
  
"Don't be surprised. There are always two stories in such cases, Mr. Gillette: the official one and the truth. I will share the first variant with you: the incompetence of Commodore Norrington of the Royal Navy in dealing with piracy made it necessary for the EITC to take care of the business themselves. Lord Cutler Beckett was a bit overzealous, people died, there was a battle in which the flagship of the EITC was destroyed by the _Black Pearl_ , commanded by pirate Captain Jack Sparrow. Admiral Norrington, now of the EITC, and Lord Cutler Beckett unfortunately died during said battle. I'm here to ensure that the ships of the EITC can sail these waters without fear of looting. As long as I'm successful, I can do whatever I want. End of story."   
  
Gillette clenched his jaw.   
  
"Commodore Norrington has been the scourge of the pirates in the Caribbean, while Lord Cutler Beckett was nothing but a power-hungry lunatic! And what about the _Flying Dutchman_?" **  
  
**_"Learned today I will not command the E., but sail on the F.D. - I understand  this is my death sentence. T.G. wants me to flee, but I can't. S. is an old man and relies on me. And then there's E. I pray to God she's still alive. - J.S.N."_ **  
  
** "Officially, there _is_ no _Flying Dutchman_ , Mr. Gillette. The _Flying Dutchman_ is a legend. A cock-and-bull story. She will never appear in any report. But there are two things I want to do: clear James Norrington's name and ruin the reputation of Lord Cutler Beckett. I refuse to spend the rest of my life challenging random gentlemen to duels because they called James Norrington a lame duck. And I'm certain that you feel the same way."   
  
Benham could see how Gillette's hand began to tremble.   
  
"Of course I do. But you need to know that Commodore Norrington was - he was not the man you once knew, Sir."   
  
"But he was still a gentleman, and that's how I want the world to remember him. For this I need your help, Mr. Gillette. You were with him at all times. I want you to tell me what really happened, starting from the day he decided to give Captain Jack Sparrow a head start to the moment he left aboard the _Flying Dutchman_." **  
  
**_"C.B. gave orders today that all men on half-pay either have to join the EITC or leave Port Royal with the Royal Navy. Could there be harsher punishment for T.G.'s words? He will never serve the EITC. I will lose my only friend. - J.S.N."_ **  
  
** Gillette put the glass back on the table and shook his head, the way one might do after waking up from a bad dream.   
  
"What do you want me to do, Captain Benham?"   
  
"I expect you to do your duty, Mr. Gillette. In two days the _Blackberry_ will put to sea. We'll accompany two convoy vessels which have been fitted to protect the EITC ships. Call it personal curiosity on my part; I want to know if any pirate would have the nerve to attack. I want you to serve under my command as Second Lieutenant. When you're not busy terrifying midshipmen, I wish to hear all you know about James Norrington and the events of the last two years." **  
  
**_"E. is dead. I wish I could mourn her, but I only feel numb. Her father is devastated. Shouldn't I be as well? The woman I once loved is dead. I told T.G. that the bugs are still there, and that E. has been murdered. He said I should move to one of the guestrooms, that there would come a time for mourning E., and that he hoped I'd understand that he could never sail under the flag of the EITC. - J.S.N."_ **  
  
** Gillette stood up, his face drained of all colour.   
  
"Sir, you don't know who I am. What I have done. Believe me, you would not want me aboard your ship if you knew. Please let me go, do not ask this of me. I have a new life, and while it might not offer me any prospect of glory and fame, it is a decent life. I wish you the best of luck in your endeavours, Sir, and God knows nobody would want to see James Norrington's name cleared more than I, but-"   
  
Benham cut Gillette off with an impatient gesture.   
  
"I'm not amenable to whining, Lieutenant. I expect you to report for duty on Friday, and if you shouldn't be there, Mr. Wallace will have you bound, gagged and carried aboard the _Blackberry_. Consider me your own personal press-gang, Mr. Gillette. More whiskey?"   
  
* * * **  
  
**_"T.G. has left the RN. I'm ashamed of the joy I feel, and humbled by the sacrifice he made. He brought me bottles of Tamanu, said the natives would use the oil to treat scabies and other conditions of the skin. I took off my cravat as the pain and itching is worst on my neck, and applied the oil. It was cool and soothing, what a bliss. T.G. stared at the scabs, open wounds and scaly patches. "They go all the way down, Mr. G." I said. "Certainly this knowledge will cure you of your infatuation?" He didn't answer, but took the bottle from my hand and began to apply the oil for me, his gentle touch almost as soothing as the remedy. God forgive me, but I crave his touch. - J.S.N."_ **  
  
** Benham closed the journal. Henry VIII. sat up and begged, and the captain gave him one of the treats he always carried with him to bribe the dogs into good behaviour.   
  
"Time to go to bed, old boy," Benham said, and the dog trotted off in direction of the kitchen. Benham stared at the journal, then at the painting of the pie, surrounded by black- and strawberries.   
  
"Oh Teddy, what am I going to do with this lad?" he asked, but of course, there came no answer.


	6. Chapter 6

Norrington had often compared the _Dauntless_ to an elegant greyhound. She had been the perfect ship for him, the guardian: swift, elegant, beautiful. The _Blackberry_ , on the other hand... Gillette sighed. HMS _Blackberry_ was a battle-scared alley cat. The ship had been launched only two years ago, but she looked as if she had already served for ten, in rough waters and many battles. Norrington had always been very careful not to get the _Dauntless_ damaged; Benham didn't seem to have such qualms. Upon boarding, Gillette noticed that extensive repairs had been carried out.   
  
"Has the _Blackberry_ been involved in a battle recently, Mr. Wallace?"   
  
The seaman, carrying Gillette's heavy sea chest as easily as if it weighed nothing, grinned.   
  
"Not a battle, Sir. We only met some French pirates."   
  
"Looks like she's caught a shot across the bows."   
  
"Ah, no, Sir. We were in a hurry, so Captain Benham decided to ram them."   
  
Gillette thought he had misheard.   
  
" _Ram_ them?"   
  
"Yes, Sir. It's one of Captain Benham's preferred strategies. That's why our old girl here looks a bit off-colour. The captain had her fitted with metal sheeting at the bows, stern and along the keel, you see? Doesn't look very pretty, but it's effective."   
  
Gillette shook his head once more while he followed Wallace. Captain Benham was a lunatic. A fascinating lunatic, that couldn't be denied, but a lunatic all the same. Odd to think that such a man had been a friend of James Norrington; they had nothing in common. Had it been a wise decision to trust him?   
  
Wallace placed Gillette's sea chest next to the one of the first lieutenant. Gillette would have to share the cabin with him for the next weeks. _'James Dee, R.N.'_ was carved in the chest's side. Gillette's own looked rather shabby next to it; along with James Norrington's name, the holystone had removed most of the colour on the lid. Nobody was supposed to know that this had been Norrington's sea chest. Nobody was supposed to have Norrington's sea chest. Not his sea chest, not his maps, not his books. Nobody but him, Gillette.   
  
"Thank you, Mr. Wallace."   
  
Wallace nodded and left, while Gillette tried to turn in the small cabin without bumping into the bunks behind him. Not that he really minded sharing, he had seen worse, but he was used to being alone at night, and with Dee in the cabin, he couldn't talk to Norrington anymore. Gillette did that, at times. Talk to Norrington.   
  
"Good to see you didn't get lost; at the size of our cabin, it could happen easily. I'm James Dee."   
  
Gillette quickly stood up and shook the offered hand after a brief moment of hesitation. Just like the captain, the first lieutenant seemed to defy conventions.   
  
"Lieutenant Thomas Gillette, Sir."   
  
"Thomas? That's a good name. I'd refused to share my cabin with anybody called Cedric or Montague. To be honest, I hoped my promotion would finally give me the privilege of my own cabin, but then I should have known better. This is the _Blackberry_ , after all."   
  
Dee was a man of about thirty years of age, with light brown hair and blue eyes. His face was tanned, and he had a mischievous, boyish smile. For whatever reasons, his left ear was missing. Another alley cat.   
  
"And on the _Blackberry_ , things are different than on other ships?" Gillette asked, and Dee laughed.   
  
"Very different! Would you like an introduction?"   
  
"I'd be grateful."   
  
Dee took off his hat and sat down on his sea chest.   
  
"Captain Benham has no favourites among the officers. You could be his brother and he'd still tear strips off you if you deserve it. He's very strict with the midshipmen, though he might have a weak spot for Mr. Jeremy - he makes him study twice as hard as the others. Then there's old Wally, of course, who can do whatever he likes. The captain wants us to think and have an opinion, so speak up if you disagree with him. Just don't expect that he'll change his mind. What else - oh, never, ever treat one of the dogs badly. They're terrible beasts, especially Richard III., but I'll never forget the midshipman who kicked the pooch - it was terrible. Poor lad."   
  
Gillette frowned.   
  
"Caning?"   
  
"Darning."   
  
"Darning?"   
  
Upon seeing Gillette's puzzled face, Dee had to laugh again.   
  
"There are no canings or floggings aboard the _Blackberry_ , Mr. Gillette. The poor lad had to darn the shirts of all ship boys and powder monkeys. Took him weeks!"   
  
Gillette shook his head.   
  
"That's the oddest punishment I've ever heard of."   
  
"True, but it was very effective."   
  
Effective. Again. In Gillette's opinion, that word described Captain Benham perfectly.   
  
Dee looked up at Gillette.   
  
"There are captains one lives with, others one likes, and there are few, very few one would die for without thinking twice. Captain Benham is one of them, that's why he doesn't need a cat o' nine tails to win the men's respect. You have to understand this, Thomas Gillette, because this is the reason why we have such an excellent crew aboard the _Blackberry_."   
  
Gillette ran his hand over the lid of his sea chest, just where Norrington's name had been.   
  
"I have once served under such a captain as well."   
  
Dee slapped his fellow lieutenant on the back.   
  
"You're a very lucky man then! Now let's not make Captain Benham wait; I'd hate to spend my next shore leave darning stockings!"   
  
* * *   
  
After the first week, Gillette had memorised the name of every man aboard the _Blackberry_ , and had settled in without further problems. The men appreciated being addressed by their names; it showed respect on the lieutenant's part. Gillette didn't tolerate any nonsense and took his duties very serious, but he never felt above getting his hands dirty or doing the occasional manual work. This won him the men's respect and made his duties easier to fulfil. Yet Gillette knew that they thought he was as cold as a pond in winter, and he couldn't blame them. He envied Benham for his enthusiasm, as trying as it was at times, and Dee for his amiable nature. He wished he could be like them, but there was nothing he had left to give.   
  
It was good to be at sea and wearing an uniform again, though. Only now, on the quarterdeck of the _Blackberry_ , Gillette realised how much he had missed the sea and naval life. But this wasn't the _Dauntless_ , and if he turned around, Norrington did not stand there, hands clasped behind his back, giving orders. Gillette missed the way Norrington had said his name. He missed his voice, his presence, missed his half-smile and his sarcasm. Norrington had left an empty space in Gillette's life that nothing and nobody could fill, and at times, Gillette wondered if it hadn't been better if he'd joined his captain and died as well.   
  
Gillette assumed that Benham was pleased with the way he went about his duties, at least there were no complaints. Unlike Norrington, who controlled everything he did and made him rewrite reports five times if there were spelling mistakes or ink spots, Benham let Gillette do as he wanted. As long as daily business aboard the _Blackberry_ ran smoothly, Benham was happy. The captain watched him and nothing escaped his attention, though, and Gillette couldn't help but wonder why Benham had insisted that he returned to the Royal Navy and served aboard the _Blackberry_ in the first place. Any other officer could have done that job, and probably better than him. Had Benham a plan he was not aware of?   
  
Lieutenant Dee watched him as well. A good man who shared with Gillette all there was to know about the _Blackberry_ and her crew. He had quite a few stories to share, and Gillette came to the conclusion that Captain Benham was indeed a lunatic, if the first lieutenant could be believed.   
  
One evening, Dee opened his sea chest and showed Gillette the miniature portrait of a pretty woman and two little boys.   
  
"Mary, my wife. And our sons, James and Richard. Are you married?"   
  
Gillette had smiled upon seeing the picture, but the smile immediately disappeared when he heard Dee's question.   
  
"No, I'm not married."   
  
"But certainly you have a young lady waiting for you?"   
  
"I have lost my love," Gillette replied, feeling like an idiot. How pathetic. He had lost his love, and nothing and nobody would bring him back, but this was his secret. Locked away, for nobody to see.   
  
Dee quickly put the miniature back in his sea chest.   
  
"My apologies. I didn't know... I mean, I didn't want to touch on anything that..."   
  
"It's not important," Gillette cut him off, and began to prepare for the night. There was an uncomfortable silence between them, but he didn't want to talk to Dee anymore. Not now. Nobody was allowed to know, and he chided himself for letting his guard down for a moment. Benham had been right - there were always two sides to a story, the official one and the truth. Officially, there was nobody he loved. Officially, there was nobody he mourned.   
  
Later on, he lay in the dark, trying in vain to find sleep. He had no painting of Norrington. He only had his memories. Gillette had always thought that he wouldn't forget Norrington's face as long as he lived, but already he found it difficult to remember small details. What shade of hazel had his eyes been? And his smile - what had it really looked like? He hadn't seen Norrington's smile for a very long time.   
  
Dee was tossing and turning as well. Finally, the man left his bunk, the hem of his shirt touching Gillette's face.   
  
"Thomas, I have to ask you something."   
  
"Ask away. I can't sleep, either."   
  
"Your lover - was not a woman?"   
  
Gillette held his breath. Had he misheard?   
  
"What?"   
  
"I wondered, you see. I've watched you, and - it wasn't a woman, was it?"   
  
"Do you want to see me hanging from the gallows, Dee? You can possibly not expect me to answer this question!"   
  
The first lieutenant sat down next to Gillette.   
  
"I don't want to get you into trouble, Thomas. I just - wondered, as I said. Wondered if-"   
  
He broke off, and Gillette could feel Dee's hand on his chest. The appropriate action would probably have been if he'd hit him right in the face, but Gillette didn't move. He didn't mind. He didn't care.   
  
"I don't love you."   
  
"Of course you don't," Dee replied, running his hand slowly across Gillette's chest and down his side. "But I like you. You seem to be lonely. And I can't bear being alone. I'm offering my company. I would not hold it against you if you turned my offer down."   
  
Gillette considered Dee's words. Admittedly, it was a tempting. He longed for somebody's touch, but it wasn't Dee's. Good grief, he couldn't even bring himself to call the man by his given name, how could he possibly sleep with him?   
  
"I'm sorry."   
  
Dee let go of Gillette and nodded.   
  
"I understand. It's fine, Thomas. Did he - did he die?"   
  
"No, Dee. _I did_."   
  
The first lieutenant returned to his bunk, and Gillette continued to stare in the darkness.   
  
* * * **  
  
**_"Do not leave your hideout for the next two months. Consider this information my payment to you for sinking the Endeavour. We're even now."_ **  
  
** "There's no signature. It's an anim... amoni... animonythingy of a letter which is not signed."   
  
Captain Jack Sparrow looked at the note, then at Elizabeth, who was feeding Will jr. porridge with mashed apples.   
  
"That baby's lookin' at me funny," he said, then wrinkled his nose. "And he smells funny, too."   
  
"So do you," Elizabeth snapped. Feeding a baby was hard work; she had porridge in her hair, on her face and all over her dress. "What about the letter?"   
  
Jack looked at Cotton as if the man could give him further explanations.   
  
"Jack smells funny! Jack smells funny!" the parrot on his shoulder croaked.   
  
"Now you be quiet, or you'll end up in the stew," Jack threatened, but the parrot was not impressed. Cotton reached in the pocket of his coat and produced another letter. Jack unfolded it, read it and shook his head.   
  
"It's your daughter moonin' over some red-haired young man with soulful eyes. What's that got to do with the note?"   
  
Cotton quickly took the letter from Jack, and handed him another one.   
  
"Another letter? What's that lass doin' all day? What do we have here... dear father... met Mrs. Turner... cute baby... what are you tryin' to tell me, Cotton?"   
  
Cotton rolled his eyes, took note and letter from Jack and held them both in front of the captain's nose.   
  
"I think he's tryin' to tell you that the warnin' an' his daughter's letter have been written by the same person, Captain," Ragetti said. "See? They look the same."   
  
Jack scratched his head.   
  
"You mean Cotton's daughter has sent us the warnin'?"   
  
"No, Captain. Sally can't write, she has somebody writin' her letters. The one about the young man has been written by somebody else, but the warnin' an' the other letter have been written by the same person!"   
  
Jack compared the two papers carefully. Ragetti was right.   
  
"It makes sense," Jack finally said. "That's how the person knew where to send the warnin' to. Doesn't answer the question who said person is, though."   
  
"Hold Will for a moment, please," Elizabeth said to Pintel. The pirate looked terrified, yet didn't dare to disobey and tried not to drop the baby, who just now had to burp and covered Pintel's shoulder with porridge and mashed apples.   
  
Elizabeth read and compared the letters. For a moment she was quiet, then she hit her fist on the table.   
  
"Gillette! It's that damned Gillette!"   
  
"What?" Jack asked.   
  
"Gillette! Here, you see? Sally writes about a young man she fancies, with 'soulful eyes' and red-hair, and that he sometimes writes letters for her, yet not this one, as he was busy. That's how Gillette always knew where I was! He knew through Sally's letters! Oh, that bastard! That obsessed lunatic!"   
  
"What are we goin' to do now, Captain?" Ragetti asked. "We can't trust a lieutenant, can we?"   
  
Jack looked at Elizabeth, who was fuming with anger, then at Ragetti. Gillette - of course. In his eyes, Lord Cutler Beckett was responsible for Norrington's death. The pirates were responsible for Lord Cutler Beckett's death, so he owed them a favour. It made sense.   
  
"I say we stay here. Mr. Cotton, please write your daughter where Mrs. Turner usually stays. With a bit of luck, Mr. Gillette will send a battle ship and confiscate the baby."


	7. Chapter 7

_ "Crabs. Not bugs. Crabs.  T.G. can't see them, but they are there, thousands and thousands of them. They're everywhere; under the floorboards, in the walls. Even at the fort I can hear the clicking of their claws. It sounds like C.B.'s walking stick dragged across the cobblestone on the place of execution. - J.S.N."  _ **  
  
** The day began with an extraordinary observation on Captain Benham's part: Lieutenant Gillette had the ability to smile. Mr. Jeremy, a book under one arm, a sextant under the other and various papers stuffed in the pockets of his coat, stood next to Gillette and fired questions at him. The midshipman had included Gillette in the small, exclusive circle of his personal heroes. The other members were Captain Benham, Mr. Wallace and Mr. Dee, so Gillette was in good company, even if he wasn't aware of it.    
  
Benham noticed with great amusement how Jeremy had started to imitate the way Gillette held his head when he listened to Mr. Dee; it was only a matter of time before the midshipman would start to tie his cravat in the same old-fashioned manner as the second lieutenant.   
  
"There will be a storm very soon," Gillette said, and shaded his eyes against the sun.   
  
"There's not a cloud in sight," Jeremy countered. "How can you tell, Sir?"   
  
"I can smell it, Mr. Jeremy."   
  
"I do notice some odd scent just before a storm, but now I can't smell anything."   
  
"You will learn in time to notice such things early on, Mr. Jeremy. Both you and your nose."   
  
The midshipman took a deep breath, so deep his face began to turn red and his eyes became wide as saucers. He looked so eager and determined that Gillette had to laugh.   
  
"Stop it, Mr. Jeremy, or you'll combust! Take your time. You excel in other things; I fear I'll soon have to come to you to learn about astronavigation."   
  
Jeremy's face turned an even deeper shade of red, this time with joy over the unexpected compliment.   
  
"Thank you, Sir! I study very hard; I want to make lieutenant as soon as possible."   
  
"You'll make an excellent lieutenant, Mr. Jeremy. But now you shouldn't let Mr. Dee wait any longer. On your way."   
  
Gillette had laughed. Benham decided to mark that day in his journal, just so he could go back and read about this extraordinary event the next time Gillette would listen to his orders with a stony face and cold eyes. The man was made for smiling. And Benham wished, just for a brief moment, that he were made to make Gillette smile.   
  
* * *   
  
"The  _ Lydia _ is waiting for us, Sir."   
  
"Let her wait. We will have guests for supper, Mr. Gillette."   
  
"Supper, Sir?" Gillette looked confused, though he had become accustomed to Captain Benham's mental leaps. Following them was as difficult a task as catching a trout with bare hands.   
  
"Yes, Mr. Gillette, supper. That's the meal following lunch. The captain and first lieutenant of the  _ Lydia _ will attend said meal tonight. Old acquaintances of yours, I heard."   
  
"Acquaintances?"   
  
"Captain Greitzer and Lieutenant Groves. I understand you have served with the latter for some years?"   
  
Gillette licked his lips.   
  
"That is true. He has served as second lieutenant under Commodore Norrington on the  _ Dauntless _ , Sir."   
  
"And Captain Greitzer?"   
  
"Has never served in the Royal Navy, Sir."   
  
Benham watched Gillette carefully for any signs of upset, but the mask was firmly in place. He wished the young man would lose his poise, just once, yell and scream like Dee did from time to time. It would have been more natural, more human. But Gillette always kept his calm, an automaton rather than a human being.   
  
"You and Mr. Dee will attend supper as well; you and Mr. Groves can talk about old times."   
  
For a brief moment, Benham could see an emotion in Gillette's eyes. Anger? It was hard to tell.   
  
"As you wish, Sir."   
  
Benham steepled his fingers.   
  
"Greitzer, Groves and Gillette. Good. Dismissed."   
  
* * *   
  
Benham took an immediate dislike to Greitzer, newly commissioned captain of the _Lydia_. The sentiment was mutual; Benham had refused to wear his wig and taken to powder his hair, an insult in Greitzer's eyes. On the other hand, Greitzer's arrogant attitude and the ridiculous walking stick he carried did not endear him much to Benham. It was obvious how very much Gillette loathed the representatives of the East India Trading Company. Mr. Dee did his best to keep the conversation going, yet he was fighting a lost battle, and Benham decided to take the bull by the horns.   
  
"An excellent meal. One can hardly notice the maggots. I assume you all have at least a nodding acquaintance with each other?"   
  
Greitzer wrinkled his nose.   
  
"I wouldn't know about that. I admit, Lieutenant Gillette bears a likeness with the footman of the late Admiral Norrington, but certainly, I'm under a misapprehension there."   
  
Gillette bit his tongue so hard he could taste blood, yet he didn't reply.   
  
"Indeed?" Benham said, looking from Gillette to Greitzer. "It is good to know that Commodore Norrington was surrounded by gentlemen - at least at home."   
  
Groves and Gillette didn't say a word, just sat there, staring down at their plates, while Greitzer and Benham continued to exchange veiled insults. Benham mastered this art far better than Greitzer, so the representative of the EITC became increasingly irritated. Dee, not sure what to make of the situation, kept himself busy with a second helping of roast beef. His captain would let him know if his support was needed.   
  
Once they had finished and the table had been cleared, Benham leaned back in his seat.   
  
"I have not invited you to discuss our mission, Captain Greitzer. There are some questions I wish to have answered."   
  
"Questions? I wouldn't know what questions. It's your duty to make sure we can go about our business without being threatened by pirates," Greitzer grumbled, flipping a crumb of bread across the table. It landed in front of Gillette, who slowly pulverised it under his thumb, glaring daggers at the captain.   
  
"It's not the first time I lead a convoy, Captain Greitzer. I know my business just as well as you know yours. Let me reword my statement: I hope one of you can help me to find the solution for a puzzle."   
  
"A puzzle? Are we children?" Greitzer snapped. Groves and Gillette looked up, their interest caught.   
  
"Aren't we all? The reason why I was sent to Port Royal is not taking care of your ships and securing the transport of old iron, Captain Greitzer. I have been sent there to sort out the mess Lord Cutler Beckett has left behind."   
  
"Lord Cutler Beckett hasn't left any mess behind! The incompetence and treason of your highly praised Admiral Norrington were responsible for our failure!"   
  
Benham's eyes hardened.   
  
"I know from a reliable source that James Norrington wrote letters to friends of his from Tortuga, explaining his situation and asking for help. He handed those letters over to a lieutenant whom he trusted. Yet not one of those letters arrived."   
  
"You can possibly not expect me to care about the mail service in Tortuga!"   
  
"The formidable Mr. Jeremy has compiled a list for me with all lieutenants whose names start with 'G' and who served in Port Royal during that time. Two of them are here tonight - Mr. Groves and Mr. Gillette. I'm curious, gentlemen - who of you went to Tortuga and met Commodore Norrington?"   
  
_ "T.G. has finally left me. I pray to God that he's on his way to Britain. There's still hope for him; as for me, I have none. - J.S.N." _   
  
"Let us begin with you, Mr. Gillette. You have served under Commodore Norrington for many years, and he trusted you. Mr. Jeremy found a note by one Mr. Mercer that you've been seeking a passage to Tortuga."   
  
Gillette's eyes narrowed into tiny slits.   
  
"Had I really been in Tortuga, I wouldn't have returned without Commodore Norrington," he replied. "Unlike others, I didn't show the white feather and jump ship."   
  
"Are you calling me a coward?" Groves snapped.   
  
Gillette arched an eyebrow.   
  
"Funny how, if you throw a stone in a pigsty, it's always the pig that gets hit which is squeaking."   
  
"I've never been to Tortuga!"   
  
"You betrayed your captain. So, indeed, I call you a coward and a traitor."   
  
Groves jumped up. Benham and Dee held the man back; otherwise he would have leaped across the table and been on Gillette's throat. They pressed Groves back down on his seat, and only when they were certain that he would not make any further attempts to stand up they let go of him.   
  
Groves shook his head, looking very tired all of a sudden.   
  
"Will you never get over it, Thomas?"   
  
"You have been an officer of the Royal Navy, and a good one. There was no reason to switch sides."   
  
"I was on half-pay, and I made the decision I thought to be the best. Who are you to judge me?"   
  
Gillette put his hands on the table, leaning forward.   
  
"Have you already forgotten what they did? How many they killed? How they treated him? Don't you get sick seeing that bloody walking stick day after day? Don't you have any honour?"   
  
Benham prevented Groves from answering by cutting his first lieutenant short.   
  
"That's enough, Mr. Gillette."   
  
Greitzer had watched the heated discussion with a disgusted expression on his face.   
  
"Some discipline you have aboard your ship, Captain Benham. I'd have him put in irons and brought before a court martial!"   
  
Benham shrugged.   
  
"Do with your lieutenant as you please. As for mine, you have no say, with all due respect, Captain Greitzer. You have never been to Tortuga, by any chance?"   
  
"This is ridiculous! Do I look like Admiral Norrington's postillion d'amour?"   
  
"You rather look like Lord Cutler Beckett's lapdog," Gillette said icily.   
  
"Enough now or I will have you put in irons and locked in the brig. This is an order, Mr. Gillette. Supper is finished, gentlemen. Mr. Wallace! Mr. Jeremy! Our guests are leaving!"   
  
Wallace and Jeremy, who had both been outside eavesdropping, stumbled into the great cabin. At the sight of the upset lieutenants, they didn't know what to say at first, but Jeremy quickly regained his poise.   
  
"Captain Greitzer, Lieutenant Groves, would you please follow me?"   
  
Greitzer ignored the midshipman.   
  
"There will be serious repercussions for this, Captain Benham," he hissed. "Don't underestimate my power."   
  
"And don't you forget that it's Britannia who rules the waves, not the East India Trading Company, Captain Greitzer. Good night."   
  
Greitzer cursed, pushed Jeremy aside and limped out of the cabin. Groves followed him without looking at Gillette, Jeremy and Wallace in tow. Dee scratched his head, giving Benham a confused sidewise glance.   
  
"My apologies, but I have no idea what's been going on here, Sir. Not that this was unusual, but - still."   
  
Benham frowned.   
  
"You will learn in time, Mr. Dee. I learned what I wanted to know. Good night."   
  
Once they were alone, Gillette raised and leaned on the table.   
  
"You're bleeding on my mother's dinnerware, Mr. Gillette."   
  
Gillette touched his nose and looked at the blood with a confused expression on his face.   
  
"How…"   
  
"Now you're bleeding on the table. Here, take this."   
  
Gillette reached for the offered napkin.   
  
"Sir, I-" he began, but Benham cut him off.   
  
"Yes, yes, I know, you're terribly sorry that you ruined the evening and behaved in such an outrageous manner, and you don't mind a court martial. I have some news for you, Mr. Gillette: I will not give you any opportunity for martyrdom. If you wish to sacrifice anything on the altar of St. James, I suggest you slaughter a chicken."   
  
Gillette muttered something into the napkin, and Benham lost his patience.   
  
"Good grief, what are you doing there! Sit down, lean your head back. Yes, that's good. Now give me that bloody napkin! Don't you have any common sense at all?"   
  
Benham pressed his index-finger to Gillette's upper lip.   
  
"That should stop it. Learned this trick from my grandmother. Now imagine if there had been a brawl in my cabin! And you would have lost, judging by the looks of Mr. Groves. To think that James described you as reasonable and restrained... will you stop fidgeting already? But still, the evening was a success. You did exactly what I hoped you'd do - men who lose control are not lying, so I think we can assume that the lieutenant who failed to deliver James Norrington's letters was not Mr. Groves. Still, I'd prefer if there were no further incidents of this kind, Mr. Gillette."   
  
The bleeding had stopped, and Benham wiped his finger off on the napkin. Gillette tried to sit up straight, feeling a bit giddy.   
  
"You -  _ wanted _ me to do this?" he stammered.   
  
"I hoped for an argument, yes. I didn't expect you to give Mr. Groves a verbal flogging around the fleet." He pulled a chair close and sat down next to Gillette.   
  
"There were four of us - midshipmen, all serving on the same ship. Me, my brother John, James Norrington and Edward deVette. John died in the first battle we were involved in, and after a year, it became clear that Edward was neither suited nor destined to serve in the Royal Navy. He left and attended the Royal Academy of Arts, spending his days painting dogs, overweight admirals and ships. I dare say he was a better painter than midshipman, an opinion our captain certainly shared. Here, have some wine to wash down the anger and the blood."   
  
Gillette accepted the glass and emptied it in one go. Benham waited a moment, then he continued his story.   
  
"I admired James very much, you must know. Not for his knowledge in naval matters, his interest in history or his skilled swordsmanship. I envied him for the unique talent of balancing a hard tack on his nose."   
  
"I beg your pardon?"   
  
Benham had to smile.   
  
"Childish, isn't it? But then I still was a child back then - thirteen, if I remember correctly. At that age, you admire people for the oddest things. At least our Mr. Jeremy has more common sense; he admires you for your extraordinary skills on the field of tying cravats."   
  
Gillette smiled. Twice in one day, it was incredible, and what an adorable lopsided smile it was! Benham wondered if James had been graced with such smiles as well. Had his heart also skipped a beat, had he also longed to see that smile again, directed at him, only at him?   
  
"You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"   
  
Gillette considered a polite lie, but then he shook his head.   
  
"No, Sir."   
  
"Good answer. What I'm trying to tell you is that the man you knew was very different from the man who was my friend. Your James Norrington is a stranger to me. And there's no better way to learn about a man and his mindset than by looking at his enemies. I think I've met one of them tonight. Your observation was rude, but correct. The lapdog is still carrying his master's stick."   
  
Gillette looked down at his blood-stained waistcoat.   
  
"I should have stayed with him."   
  
" _ 'Let us also go, that we might die with him.'  _ You are not Thomas the Apostle, Mr. Gillette."   
  
Benham rested his hand on the young man's shoulder.   
  
"I know loss and grief as well. They will eat your heart and soul if you're not very careful, Thomas."   
  
Gillette shrugged Benham's hand off and looked up, his mouth a thin, bloodless line. Lips like razor blades, incapable of smiling.   
  
"You don't understand, Sir. I am one of those who were responsible for his death." **   
  
** _ "He is back. I'm ashamed  that I feel such joy at the sight of him. He made me an offer, and I accepted. A terrible sin, I have damned both our souls, yet I can't feel guilty. How selfish of me. But how could I have turned him down? How could I have denied myself the only chance of feeling alive, if even for a few moments? And what if we'd stayed like that, my arms around him, for all eternity? Dust would have settled, day after day, and finally, years from now, we'd been covered by this soft, thick layer, becoming one with it, invisible and safe and finally at peace. - J.S.N." _


	8. Chapter 8

"This might be of interest to you, Mr. Dee."   
  
Benham reached the map across the table, the cuff of his coat coming perilously close to the open inkwell. It was a map of the Caribbean Sea, and Dee studied it with great interest.   
  
"Wonderful work, Sir. Shoals and dangerous currents have been charted, half of them I've never heard of. May I ask where you have purchased it?"   
  
"You may ask, Mr. Dee, but I can't answer that question. Not yet. What's your impression of Lieutenant Gillette?"   
  
Dee tried to redirect his thoughts from the map to the second lieutenant, cursing Benham's habit of jumping from one subject to another within moments.   
  
"He's a very capable officer, Sir."   
  
"Would I have insisted that he came to serve aboard the _Blackberry_ if I'd thought him to be an idiot? I want to know what you _think_ of him."   
  
"He's a gentleman. He remains at the helm no matter the circumstances and the men respect him."   
  
"But they don't like him."   
  
"I wouldn't put it like that, Sir. The midshipmen adore him, but the rest of the crew - well, I'd say they neither like nor dislike him. He's an officer. They respect his rank and skills, but they can't see the man for the lieutenant."   
  
Benham leaned back in his seat and gave Dee a sly look.   
  
"But you can? You should. You share a cabin, after all."   
  
Dee looked uncomfortable and shifted from one foot to the other like a little boy.   
  
"One could say that he's pleasant company, Sir."   
  
"Have you found anything of interest in his sea chest?"   
  
"Sir, with all due respect! I would never do such a thing, going through his effects behind his back," Dee protested, rather insulted by Benham's question.   
  
The captain tapped his fingers impatiently on the table.   
  
"Mr. Dee, would you rather that I share the cabin with him so I can do it?"   
  
"If this should be your wish: my berth is all yours, Sir."   
  
"That's very generous of you, Mr. Dee, yet I fear that it might be a bit too small for the two of us. How is your wife, by the way? Please don't forget to send her my warmest regards the next time you write. I have always found her and you to be very pleasant company. Dismissed."   
  
Dee left very quickly, and Benham returned his attention to the map in front of him. It was the work of one of London's best mappers, and the notes regarding shoals and currents, made in James Norrington's neat handwriting, would be very useful. Benham had found the map on the table in the early morning. He hoped that, once they were back in Port Royal, at least James' books on gardening would be returned to the library as well. The cabbage was in a lamentable state.   
  
Benham put the map aside, took James Norrington's journal out of his writing slope and leafed through the small book. He had hoped for some information regarding the _Flying Dutchman_ and Lord Cutler Beckett's plans, but the few entries that James had made aboard the _Endeavour_ consisted of nothing but coordinates and weather conditions. What an extreme change from the intimate, deeply personal previous entries - it almost seemed as if James had left his soul behind the moment he had embarked on his last journey.   
  
In a way, that was probably true. **  
  
**_"How could I have denied myself the only chance of feeling alive, if even for a few moments?"_ **  
  
** Was that what Gillette had been to James? A chance of feeling alive? In the beginning, Benham had read the journal without a feeling of guilt; after all he had a mission to fulfil. But with every entry, the feeling of being an intruder had increased. There could be no doubt that Gillette had been deeply in love with James, still was, that he would have died for him without hesitating a second - but what about James? Not once the word "love" had been used, not even "affection"; had Gillette been nothing more to him than the spar a drowning man would cling to?   
  
Benham hated the thought. That would not have been like James at all; his friend would have never used people in such a manner. Benham was angry with himself, for snapping at Dee just because he liked Gillette. Was jealousy the same as envy? If that was the case, so Benham mused, he was guilty of a deadly sin. He envied James for having Gillette's love, even beyond the grave. He envied Dee for sharing his cabin. Would his eyes be sewn shut with wire after his death, as Dante had predicted in his _Purgatory_?   
  
Benham sighed. If he added lust and wrath to the list, and, if he was completely honest, pride as well, the list of deadly sins he had committed in his life was rather long. A good thing he didn't believe in an afterlife, or he would have spent his days in fear of God's wrath. Then there were the various Articles of War he had broken. Article 1 made him a hypocrite, as he refused to believe in a deity who had taken from him what he had loved most. And then there was Article 29 - yes, Article 29. Broken so many times, without even the smallest feeling of guilt.   
  
Only two years had passed since Teddy's death, and here he was, spending a good part of his days and a not insignificant part of his nights thinking of Gillette. There was no fool like an old fool, it was very unlikely that anybody would ever be able to push Saint James off the pedestal Gillette had put him on.   
  
But there was the map, probably Gillette's way of saying "thank you" for the humiliation of Captain Greitzer. So Gillette at least didn't hate him. It was a start.   
  
"You're a very odd creature, Thomas Gillette," Benham said to himself. "I wonder how many insults I'd have to hurl at Greitzer to get James' chamber pot back."   
  
* * *   
  
The chamber pot remained missing, but the storm Gillette had predicted shook both the _Blackberry_ and the _Lydia_ with considerable force. Gillette proved that he was worth his salt during the storm; every man knew where he had to be and Gillette was working side by side with the seamen. The midshipmen gathered around Gillette in the unquestionable confidence that the lieutenant would tell them what to do without putting their lives at risk unless necessary. The youngest one, Mr. Reynolds, was only twelve years old, and as he happened to be rather small for his age and didn't weigh much more than a small barrel of beer even when dripping wet, Gillette tied him to the main mast without further ado. An unconventional practice, no doubt, but it was preferable to losing the boy.   
  
The next morning Benham found Gillette on the quarterdeck, as usual accompanied by Mr. Jeremy. At the sight of the midshipman, Benham wondered for a minute about the nature of Jeremy's admiration. He followed Gillette around like a chick the mother-hen, and while Benham had no doubt that the lad could learn a lot from Gillette, he hoped Jeremy wouldn't go overboard, and not only in the literal meaning of the word.   
  
For crying out loud, now he was beginning to feel jealousy towards a midshipman! Benham cleared his throat and put on a smile.   
  
"Isn't this a fine morning, gentlemen! Quite a shake we took, didn't we?"   
  
Upon hearing Benham's cheerful greeting, Gillette turned around. He was nervous, probably fearing that the captain would ask him about the map. Once he realised that there was no risk of an interrogation on that matter, Gillette relaxed and seemed to be more at ease.   
  
"Yes, Sir. I'm very satisfied with the crew. No lives have been lost."   
  
"They are very reliable, indeed. Would you believe the crew consists of the biggest scallywags in the Royal Navy? I've been told they'd end on the gallows for mutiny, but look at them now!"   
  
Gillette was confused.   
  
"Scallywags, Sir?"   
  
Jeremy looked slightly insulted, and Benham had to hide a grin.   
  
"Our midshipmen, of course, are perfect gentlemen. Mr. Jeremy, Mr. Dee might need your assistance with some paperwork."   
  
Jeremy caught the hint and hurried away, head held high like the captain of a newly launched first-rated frigate.   
  
"Scallywags, Mr. Gillette. It was a bet, you see. Some fine gentlemen at my club insisted that a man couldn't change once he was on his way down, and that any effort on him would be wasted. I disagreed and, needless to say, I won the bet. Why did Commodore Norrington allow Jack Sparrow to escape, Mr. Gillette?"   
  
Gillette frowned, caught off-guard.   
  
"It is not my place to make assumptions regarding the motivation of a superior officer's decision, Sir."   
  
"I wish there was an Article of War regarding the annoyance caused by pretentious lieutenants, Mr. Gillette, but then you'd face a court martial, and we wouldn't want that. I need to understand why a man who lived so strictly by the rules and laws as Commodore James Norrington allowed a pirate to escape. It makes no sense to me, you see?"   
  
There was a battle raging inside Gillette, Benham could tell from the way the man rubbed his fingers. He always did that when he was nervous. Rubbing his fingers or, if he thought no other officers were around, cracking his knuckles.   
  
"Commodore Norrington was probably convinced that it was the right thing to do for a gentleman. A matter of fairness, Sir. He didn't let Jack Sparrow escape as everybody claims - he gave him one day's head start," Gillette finally replied. He spoke slowly, carefully, desperate not to say anything about James that might be constructed as disagreement or criticism.   
  
"Would you have allowed him to escape?"   
  
"Me, Sir?"   
  
"Yes, or do you see any other lieutenant around here?"   
  
"I have never thought about that, Sir," Gillette said stiffly.   
  
"Mr. Gillette, the only one aboard the _Blackberry_ who's entitled to the occasional bit of lying is me."   
  
"I can't answer that question, Sir. I was not in the position to make such a decision."   
  
Benham stood very close to Gillette now. Damn the man for being tall, it would have been far easier if he had been eye to eye with the lieutenant. Still, he had managed to unsettle Gillette.   
  
"Well?"  
  
"No. I wouldn't have let him go. And I would have never believed her when-"   
  
Benham never learned what Gillette wouldn't have believed, because Dee came running, Jeremy close behind him, both officers being very upset.   
  
"Captain Benham! Sir!"   
  
"Is anything amiss, Mr. Dee?"   
  
"There have been signals from the _Lydia_ , Sir - we have to launch a boat immediately, something terrible has happened!"   
  
* * *   
  
Aboard the _Lydia_ , Benham, Dee and Gillette were greeted by a very pale-looking young man who introduced himself as Lieutenant Henry Tigg. He was surrounded by seamen, most of them armed, which was an unusual sight. Tigg's hands were shaking, and Benham wished somebody had had the wisdom to give the lad a stiff drink, because that seemed to be exactly what the poor devil needed.   
  
"Thanks God you are here, Captain Benham! It's terrible; I have never seen such a thing! At first we thought it was a mutiny, but then it became clear that-"   
  
"Where is Lieutenant Groves?" Benham asked, cutting Tigg off.   
  
"In the brig, Sir. The men wanted to hang him from the yardarm. I gave orders to shoot anybody who'd try to interfere with the normal course of justice. I hope that was right, Sir? I promised them that he would be brought in front of a court martial, but the men are still very much upset, Sir."   
  
Benham looked around. The faces of the men serving on the _Lydia_ expressed shock, fear and anger - a dangerous mixture. The last thing he needed was more upset or even a riot; under no circumstances would he tolerate any further violence, no matter how justified the anger of the men might be.   
  
"Their anger is understandable, yet this matter is now in my hands. I will send some of our marines and Mr. Dee here will stay with you for the next few days, Mr. Tigg. A few extra muskets will make it easier to keep the men at bay. Are there any witnesses of the crime?"   
  
Tigg shook his head.   
  
"No, Sir. But he doesn't deny his deed at all. He actually seems to be - pleased."   
  
"I see. Mr. Gillette, I suggest that you will try to talk to Mr. Groves. If there is anybody here who might be able to shed some light on this matter, it would be you."   
  
Gillette nodded.   
  
"Yes, Sir."   
  
Benham clasped his hands behind his back.   
  
"Lieutenant Gillette will interrogate the prisoner, Lieutenant Tigg. In the meantime, I wish to see the body."   
  
* * *   
  
Gillette looked over his shoulder, and when he was certain that he was alone with Groves, he crouched down next to the corner of the brig his former friend had curled up in.   
  
"Daniel, can you hear me? Daniel, it's me, Thomas."   
  
"Thomas?"   
  
Groves lifted his head. Gillette could see that he had been beaten up badly. It had to be expected, it was a miracle the men had not hanged him right on the spot. The yellow and blue uniform of the East India Trading Company, representing everything Thomas hated, was torn and heavily bloodstained. It couldn't be Groves' blood alone; he would have already been dead otherwise.   
  
"Thomas, old friend. If I'd known you'd be coming for a visit I'd polished my irons."   
  
Gillette sat down and leaned against the grid. Groves did the same; their heads would have touched if the bars hadn't separated them.   
  
"Why did you do it, Daniel? Why? You must have known that there was no chance for you to escape!"   
  
Groves shrugged.   
  
"Somebody had to do it. I've often thought about it, you know. Sometimes I stood behind Cutler Beckett and imagined that I'd strangulate the bastard with his own cravat. I've been daydreaming of cutting Mercer's throat with his dagger. Sending Greitzer to kingdom come? A personal pleasure. I have no regrets."   
  
"How did you do it?"   
  
A laugh - not the laughter of a madman, but simply an expression of amusement. Gillette shivered upon hearing it.   
  
"I beat him to death, Thomas. With Cutler Beckett's walking stick! You must admit, the irony is striking. Striking, indeed! See, it was Greitzer who kept Norrington's letters. I had no idea, but my, how smug he was about it the night after supper aboard the _Blackberry_! He just had to tell me, you see? Had to brag with this wonderful, clever plan of Beckett and Mercer and him, isolating Norrington from his friends and forcing him to join party with the Most Honourable East India Trading Company. It was a trap, Thomas. Your captain, he's a great man. He humiliated Greitzer more than I could have ever done, but I did the next best thing. I took my time, so you can be assured he suffered for a while. It was the least I could do. As I said, I have no regrets."   
  
Gillette pressed his forehead against the cold bars.   
  
"I wish I had your courage, Daniel. I've been weak. I've let him down."   
  
Groves shook his head.   
  
"You've been James Norrington's best friend, and he knew that. No, it's fine the way it is now."   
  
"Daniel, there's something I must know. Did he - is it really true that he died aboard the _Flying Dutchman_?"   
  
"Yes, unfortunately."   
  
"Did you see the body?"   
  
"The body?" Groves frowned. "No, Thomas. I've never been aboard the _Flying Dutchman_."   
  
Gillette licked his lips. There was a thin film of sweat on his forehead and upper lip.   
  
"That's what Elizabeth Turner said as well. I asked her over and over if she could swear on her son's life that Commodore Norrington was dead, but she refused. Nobody could tell me for sure, so he might still be alive!"   
  
"Thomas, no!" Groves cried out, highly alarmed. "He is dead, dead, dead! Our captain is dead, accept it!"   
  
Long, freckled fingers held tight to the bars, knuckles standing out white.   
  
"Barbossa lives. Jack Sparrow lives. Both have been dead. Why can't my captain be alive as well? Maybe he was only injured? I have to find out, don't you understand? It's not fair! All those pirates live, and my captain shall be dead?"   
  
Groves hit his fist against the bars.   
  
"Thomas, you have to be _dead_ to get aboard the _Flying Dutchman_! I'll probably go straight to hell, but you are the only one of our gallant little troop who's left; for God's mercy, live your life and let the dead rest! Remember him as the man he used to be, and try to think of me at times as well, a lieutenant you used to have a drink with at the tavern and who always lost his bets."   
  
Gillette didn't reply, just clenched his jaw stubbornly, and Groves sighed.   
  
"Will you come to my hanging, Thomas? I'd feel better if I knew you were there. At least one friendly face in the crowd."   
  
"Your hanging?" Gillette repeated, as if he had only just now realised what punishment expected one who had murdered his captain.   
  
"Your hanging - no, Daniel, I don't think I will be there."   
  
* * *   
  
Nobody spoke while the longboat made its way back to the _Blackberry_. Groves was in the brig and in irons, Greitzer had found a temporary resting place in a large brandy barrel, and Benham gave Gillette concerned sidewise glances. He didn't believe his report that Groves had refused to talk to him. He was worried because Gillette hadn't tried to speak in his friend's favour. He'd expected his second lieutenant to protest, maybe even ask for mercy, yet all Gillette had done was staring into space.   
  
They had almost reached the Blackberry when a single shot from a pistol could be heard, ending the eerie silence. The sound came from the _Lydia_. All men startled and turned to see what had happened aboard the merchant.   
  
All but Gillette.   
  
"Mr. Gillette, where is your pistol?" Benham asked calmly.   
  
Gillette slowly turned his head and looked straight into Benham's eyes.   
  
"I don't have it anymore, Sir."   
  
Benham felt as if somebody had stabbed him right through the heart, and for a brief moment, Gillette could see in his eyes regret, pain, genuine sympathy and affection. But those were the feelings of Lucas Benham, not the ones of Captain Benham, Royal Navy.   
  
"Put Lieutenant Gillette in irons and lock him up in the brig as soon as we're back aboard the _Blackberry_ , Mr. Wallace," he said. Then he addressed Gillette.   
  
"You are aware that it is very likely that you will be executed, Mr. Gillette?"   
  
"I'm fully aware of the consequences, Sir. I don't fear death. I only ask to be executed at sea. Please send me to Davy Jones' locker, Captain Benham."


	9. Chapter 9

Three days sailing from Port Royal in a fair breeze, and Captain Benham's mood was on level with the bottom of the sea or, as Teddy would have called it, "byngish". It was a word that didn't exist. Teddy had often used made-up words; he liked the idea of a language only the two of them would understand. The unfortunate Admiral John Byng had been executed on the quarterdeck of HMS _Monarch_ for cowardice after the French siege of Minorca, and Teddy had called him an unfortunate man suffering from a bad case of common sense. It was probably a good thing that Teddy had left the navy.   
  
Benham began to feel lonely aboard the _Blackberry_. Lieutenant Dee was doing his best to upkeep discipline on the _Lydia_. Dealing with the murder of Captain Greitzer had been difficult enough, but the suicide of Lieutenant Groves added the element of superstition. Already first reports of "eerie noises" and "shadowy figures" were circulating among the men. The East India Trading Company would find it very difficult to man the ship in future; her reputation was ruined.   
  
Groves had been sewn in sailcloth; the last stitch went through his nose as a concession to the superstitious sailors. Not only did it serve as a last proof that the man was really dead, it was also popular belief that the dead wouldn't return to haunt the living if their souls were stitched to their bodies. Then Groves had been thrown overboard along with two cannonballs, courtesy of the _Blackberry_. Benham and Dee had discussed the possibility of giving Greitzer a burial at sea instead of transporting him back to Port Royal, but Dee had advised against it. As long as the captain's body was aboard, the men wouldn't riot, out of respect for the deceased.   
  
So Greitzer was in his brandy barrel, Groves in Davy Jones' locker, Dee sailing on the _Lydia_ and Gillette sitting in the brig. In irons. It goes without saying that neither Greitzer, Groves nor Dee were responsible for Benham's constant frown. He found it very difficult to enjoy supper - and the salt pork with juniper berries was excellent! - knowing Gillette's night meal consisted of hard tack and water. It was even more difficult to enjoy the comfort of his cot as Gillette had to sleep on the floor. Of course Benham had made sure there were plenty of blankets, he wasn't a brute, but still, his mattress felt as if it had been filled with stones rather than straw.   
  
The crew of the _Blackberry_ had been surprised by Benham's decision, but not questioned it. If the captain said that the second lieutenant had to be locked up, then it was certainly justified. They were more worried about the bad omen of Groves' suicide than a possible court martial for their first lieutenant.   
  
But the midshipmen - good grief. They were inconsolable, with exception of Mr. Jeremy, who was furious. He radiated disapproval and outrage; the usually so loquacious young man had reduced his conversations with Benham to "yes, Sir," and "no, Sir" and was as sociable as a hungry snapping-turtle. He didn't ask questions anymore and avoided the captain whenever possible. When Mr. Wallace reported sightings of young master Jeremy near the brig, a tankard with beer and a cushion half hidden under his coat, Benham decided that it was time to have a word with the oldest of his midshipmen.   
  
Jeremy usually looked eager, excited or a bit nervous when called to Benham's cabin, but now he was stony-faced and serious. Benham busied himself with the papers in front of him, not offering Jeremy a seat as he usually did.   
  
"This is all very annoying. Once we're back in Port Royal, I will have to explain the murder of Captain Greitzer without even knowing the reasons for the crime. Then there's the suicide of Lieutenant Groves and the fact that our Mr. Gillette has been aiding and abetting the escape of a prisoner - of sorts. For some reasons, Mr. Gillette is very eager to be executed, a first among the officers I've served with and a fact beyond my understanding. Then there's my cabbage, which Mr. Muir has very likely ruined by now. As you can see, I have many unpleasant things to deal with, so the last thing I need at the moment is a sulking midshipman. If you disagree with any of my actions, this would be the moment to tell me, Mr. Jeremy."   
  
Jeremy's frown deepened.   
  
"I'm only a midshipman, Sir. What weight could my words have?"   
  
Benham tapped his fingers on the table.   
  
"My patience is wearing thin, Mr. Jeremy. So thin that I'm finding myself reconsidering my stance on corporal punishment."   
  
Though Jeremy knew that Benham only used canes to stake tomatoes, it was difficult to tell whether he serious or not, so Jeremy decided not to take any chances.   
  
"Sir, you have locked Lieutenant Gillette up. In the brig. In irons. In irons, Sir! Lieutenant Gillette!"   
  
Jeremy could have possibly not been more outraged if the captain had locked King George up in the brig of the _Blackberry_ , and Benham hastily cleared his throat to hide a smile.   
  
"Mr. Jeremy, I have no obligations whatever to explain my actions to you. I will do it, anyway. I had to give that order because Mr. Gillette committed a crime. He's an officer, he knew the consequences; it was his decision. So why don't you direct your outrage at him? Maybe it would be more helpful if you'd smuggle a copy of the Articles of War in the brig rather than beer?"   
  
That didn't do much to calm the midshipman down; Jeremy was in full flow. "But that's my point, it wasn't a crime at all, Sir!" he continued his protest. "Mr. Groves would have died, anyway, so why does it matter?"   
  
Benham gave him a stern look.   
  
"There is a difference between a murderer being brought to justice and hanged and a murderer committing suicide. The fact aside that it's a terrible sin to take one's own life, it's important that people see that justice will be done, that there are no exceptions just because a crime was committed by an officer. The law is no respecter of persons. At least it shouldn't be."   
  
Jeremy wrinkled his nose.   
  
"So the punishment is not death itself, but the public humiliation? Indeed, Sir, I have to support Mr. Gillette all the more then, for he acted like a true friend and gentleman and spared Mr. Groves such a shameful end. It's - it's a question of honour, Sir."   
  
Benham didn't like seeing Jeremy in such distress.   
  
"I don't even know why Mr. Groves murdered his captain. I was not given the chance to understand and maybe find - extenuating circumstances. Do not think me to be cold-hearted, and I assure you that I'll do everything in my might to spare Mr. Gillette's life, but there are rules and laws, and we all have to abide by them. You knew that when you decided to join the Royal Navy, and I remember well how your father warned you that the life we live would be very harsh."   
  
Jeremy straightened up and narrowed his eyes.   
  
"My father also taught me that in the first place it's God's law that I should follow. Then I should listen to what my heart tells me, and only then consider the law of men. Had he followed the law of men, we wouldn't be here today, Sir."   
  
"That is very true, but the Articles of War weren't written so that we may have more paper to fold paper ships, Mr. Jeremy."   
  
Jeremy laughed bitterly.   
  
"The Articles of War - of course! May I quote Article 1, Sir? _All commanders, captains, and officers, in or belonging to any of His Majesty's ships or vessels of war, shall cause the public worship of Almighty God, according to the liturgy of the Church of England established by law, to be solemnly, orderly and reverently performed in their respective ships; and shall take care that prayers and preaching, by the chaplains in holy orders of the respective ships, be performed diligently; and that the Lord's day be observed according to law._ Shouldn't you lock me up as well then? And, with all due respect, Sir, yourself along with me and Mr. Gillette?"   
  
Benham jumped up and hit his fist on the table.   
  
"That's enough! You're forgetting your place, lad! You're holding something against me that-"   
  
The _Blackberry_ was hit by a heavy wave, and Jeremy stumbled. Benham turned his head towards the porthole behind the midshipman, quite alarmed.   
  
"What was that?"   
  
Jeremy tried to pick up his hat and not to fall over.   
  
"I'd say there's bad weather coming up, Sir. That's very odd; there has been fair weather for the last days, and not a single sign of a change."   
  
Another wave shook the _Blackberry_ , making the hull creak. Benham could feel it, the midshipman was right. The atmosphere had changed; they were in for rough seas.   
  
"The weather in this part of the world is unpredictable. I fear you will have to challenge me to a duel some other time, Mr. Jeremy - we have to prepare for a storm."   
  
* * *   
  
In all his years at sea, Benham had never experienced a storm of such terrible force. It had come out of nowhere, without warning, and unlike other storms, which Benham considered to be an unavoidable confrontation between man and nature, this one had a malicious energy. It was almost as if the elements attacked the _Blackberry_ following an intelligent plan. The waves hit the _Blackberry_ fore and aft, shook her violently and broke the bow sprit, along with the figure head. The masts were stripped of the sails so quickly that Benham thought of the storm as a giant child, ripping the petals off a flower with glee.   
  
Men were washed overboard with such force that they had not even the chance to cry for help, and when Midshipman Reynolds was hit by a jack block and had to be carried to the sick bay, Benham decided to release Gillette, Admiralty and Articles of War be damned. He gave Jeremy the keys and the lad almost fell down the stairs in his attempt to get to the brig as fast as possible.   
  
Very soon after, Gillette appeared on deck. He was immediately drenched with rain and seawater, nodded briefly at Benham then made his way to a group of seamen who seemed to be paralysed with fright by the unleashed forces of nature. Even through the roaring of the storm Benham could hear Gillette yelling orders.   
  
"What are you, able seamen or headless chicken? Move! Move!"   
  
Benham yelled orders as well, and with Gillette on deck, the storm seemed to have lost part of its frightfulness. Jeremy came stumbling towards Benham, clinging to his arm so not to fall and stay close enough to be heard.   
  
"Sir! Sir! Some of the men say this was the doing of Groves' ghost! They say that we are cursed and have no chance against the forces of hell and that the ship was lost, that we should abandon the _Blackberry_! They say-"   
  
Benham steadied Jeremy, but interrupted his shouted report.   
  
"Mr. Jeremy, fetch pistols for the lieutenants, and their swords as well. Also take a pistol for yourself. I hope that it won't come to the point that we will have to use force against parts of the crew, but it's better to be prepared!"   
  
Jeremy stared at Benham in utter horror, wet hair clinging to his face, water dripping from his chin.   
  
"Sir, I don't think I could-"   
  
"If you have to, you can. On your way, Mr. Jeremy."   
  
"Yes, Sir," Jeremy nodded, his face all serious again, and he went to fulfil Captain Benham's orders with the dignity of an officer, despite looking like a drowned rat.   
  
* * *   
  
It wasn't easy making his way to Gillette, but Benham was determined not to allow torn canvas, broken wood or any other side-effect of a bloody storm to keep him from his second lieutenant's side and inform him about a different kind of storm they'd might have to face. Gillette and Wallace clung to the wheel, trying to navigate the _Blackberry_ through the storm without breaking the ship in two pieces.   
  
"Where are the steersman and his mate?" Benham yelled.   
  
"Gone overboard, Sir!" Gillette yelled back. A wave washing over the helm doused them even more; Gillette spit out and coughed. Benham had finally made it to the wheel and stood behind Wallace.   
  
"There might be trouble with some of the men. I've sent Mr. Jeremy to fetch pistols and swords."   
  
Wallace looked shocked.   
  
"Good God! They wouldn't mutiny in the middle of a storm, would they?"   
  
"No, Wally, but they think this is the doing of Mr. Groves' restless ghost. They want to abandon the ship."   
  
"Do they think they can swim back to Port Royal?"   
  
"I hope that we will never find out. What would you suggest, Mr. Gillette? Mr. Gillette? Lieutenant?"   
  
Gillette stared out on the stormy sea. His eyes became wide and he said something to Wallace, yet it was impossible for Benham to understand the words in the roaring storm. Gillette must have spotted something of great importance, that was obvious, but before Benham could inquire what it was, Gillette let go of the wheel and pushed Benham aside, making his way past the box binnacle and across the deck at a fast pace. The wheel spun around and knocked Wallace over, and if Benham hadn't been so quick-witted, it would have been out of control. Luckily for the _Blackberry_ and her crew, Wallace was not injured. He jumped up and helped Benham to keep the ship on course.   
  
Benham swore a blue streak. Gillette looked neither left nor right, didn't seem to be bothered or even noticing the chaos around him. Benham had no idea what he was up to, but cold fear grasped him, and he knew, he just knew that he had to stop the lieutenant, no matter how.   
  
"Mr. Morgan!" he yelled, and a burly seaman came running.   
  
"Yes, Sir?"   
  
"Help Mr. Wallace with the wheel!"   
  
"Aye, Sir!"   
  
Morgan took over, and Benham followed Gillette. It wasn't easy, the storm was still strong and rain poured down. Benham felt as if he was looking through opal glass, and he was grateful when a torn piece of canvas, once part of the main sail, hit Gillette hard and made him fall. The sail was wet and heavy, trapping Gillette underneath. It was the minute Benham needed to catch up with him.   
  
He grasped Gillette by the arms and pulled him up to stand on his feet.   
  
"Have you gone mad?" he screamed. "How dare you leave your position?"   
  
Gillette tried to struggle free.   
  
"Let go of me! Can't you see her? I have to leave! I'm not under your command anymore!"   
  
Benham took an even firmer hold of Gillette.   
  
"Who? What? The hell you are not under my command! I'm your captain!"   
  
"You're not!" Gillette screamed, and punched Benham in the side. "There she is, can't you see her? She's waiting for me! The _Flying Dutchman_!"   
  
The punch hurt, and Benham let go of Gillette for a moment, who immediately ran towards the railing. It was obvious that Gillette had lost his mind, for no matter how much Benham strained his eyes, he couldn't see anything but water and dark clouds out there, along with those pieces of the _Blackberry_ the storm had stripped off her.   
  
"Gillette! There is no ship! Stop! Gillette! Thomas!"   
  
Benham jumped and managed to get a hold of Gillette's leg, dragging him away from the railing. Gillette kicked and struggled; Benham wouldn't have any of that, and the two men began to fight - Gillette for his death, Benham for Gillette's life. None of them held back. They rolled on the deck, were hit by sails and ropes, stood up and fell again, and the crewmen, too busy fighting for the ship and their own lives, didn't seem to notice. Gillette was taller, stronger and younger than Benham, and finally, he had the captain in a headlock.   
  
"I'm sorry, I'm so very sorry, Sir," he said. "Thank you for all your kindness, but James is waiting. I have to go."   
  
Gillette buried his face in Benham's neck for a moment, a gesture of such unexpected gentleness that Benham ceased his struggle.   
  
"You'll understand it, don't you? I know you will, Lucas. I have to go if my captain calls me."   
  
Benham opened his mouth to scream that _he_ was the captain, that Gillette was _his_ lieutenant, and that he would find love among the living rather than among the dead, but that very moment, Gillette was jerked violently forwards and let go of the captain. Benham fell over and landed on his back. Gillette stared down at him, surprised, shocked, not understanding what had happened to him. He staggered and stumbled, then a wave crashed on the deck and washed him overboard. The last thing Benham saw of him was a white, long-fingered hand - it was almost like Gillette waved him good-bye.   
  
Benham scrambled up and looked over the railing, but Gillette was gone, swallowed by the sea. He turned his head, and there stood Mr. Jeremy, eyes closed, one hand clasped over his mouth, the other still holding the pistol.


	10. Chapter 10

The bright sunshine matched neither Captain Benham's affections nor the devastation on the deck of the  _ Blackberry _ . The sun seemed to mock crew and captain; the latter wished he had the power to pick it from the sky and throw it in the sea. Benham, suffering from various bruises and a pounding headache, glared at the carpenter whose hammering echoed painfully in his ears.   
  
He wished for silence.   
He longed for darkness.   
He wanted to be alone, if possible too drunk to think.   
  
That's what he had done after Teddy's death - hiding and drinking. He couldn't do it now, though. He was the captain. He had to function even if everything around him went to heaven in a wheelbarrow.   
  
The main mast had weathered the storm, and the  _ Blackberry _ would make it back to Port Royal, though with a delay of two or three days. They had been lucky, all things considered. No news yet regarding the fate of the  _ Lydia _ , but Benham wasn't worried. Dee was an excellent officer, if the men had been wise enough to follow his orders rather than give in to superstitious foolery, they were still alive.   
  
The  _ Blackberry _ had lost nine men, eleven were injured. Mr. Jeremy and Mr. Wallace accompanied Benham on his tour, first visiting the injured men - young Reynolds looked very pale but would recover soon, what a relief! - then going from sea chest to sea chest. Benham had established that ritual after losing a man. An inventory was raised of the chest's content and then he impressed his seal. Nobody would dare to break it and steal from the dead.   
  
Jeremy had raised eight inventories and helped Benham to impress eight seals. His hair, encrusted with sea-salt, smelled of sealing-wax. Benham didn't know why this fact caught his attention. Eight men's lives in eight sea chests, yet Jeremy seemed to be unmoved, his face a mask of indifference. Not once had he mentioned Lieutenant Gillette's death, and Benham knew that it was not the right moment to bring the matter up. There would probably never be a right moment, only one that might be a little less painful.   
  
"Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Jeremy. Please go and take a rest now. Mr. Wallace and I can do this alone," Benham said when they arrived in front of Gillette's cabin, the one he had shared with Lieutenant Dee.   
  
Jeremy flinched as if he had been threatened with a pistol, then Benham could see relief in his eyes.   
  
"Yes, Sir," Jeremy replied, nodded and turned on his heel, leaving without a further word. Benham wondered if he'd ever see the cheerful young man again that Jeremy had been before the storm.   
  
"I wish people at home would know what the service does to us at times, Wally."   
  
"Might be better they don't, Sir," Wallace replied. They entered the cabin, and Benham opened Gillette's sea chest. It wasn't locked, but there wasn't much to see, anyway. Gillette's full frock dress coat, shirts, stockings, a writing slope with quill, paper and inkwell. Maps, one of them carrying James Norrington's name. Benham wondered if that one would have miraculously appeared on his table as well if Gillette hadn't died. He'd never know now. There was a ditty box, containing a bible, thread and needles, a shoe buckle, some buttons, letters and a journal.   
  
Benham stared at the journal. Did it contain Gillette's part of the story? If yes, should he read it? Did he even  _ want _ to read it? What if he'd find his name? What if he wouldn't? And why was it once again him who had been left behind with nothing but a journal? First the one of his brother John's, then Teddy's, James', and now Gillette's. Many journals. Many losses.   
  
"What will we do with his effects, Sir?" Wallace asked, less out of interest than of concern for his captain and the wish to break the uncomfortable silence.   
  
"His effects? His effects, of course... I don't know, Wally."   
  
Benham put the journal back in the chest, without even opening it. Then he closed the chest's lid and sat down on it. So far he had made it through the day as it was expected of him: in charge, giving commands, ensuring that ship and men would make it home to Port Royal. Nothing less would have been expected of a captain. But inside, Benham felt numb. He remembered Gillette's hand, waving at him. Nonsense, he hadn't been waving. It had been the force of the sea, nothing else; shaking the body of his second lieutenant like a child would do with a doll.   
  
Wallace sighed.   
  
"We've weathered other storms, Sir. And Mr. Jeremy - well, I hope you don't mind me being so forward, Sir, but he didn't do anything wrong."   
  
Benham looked up.   
  
"Mr. Jeremy? No, he certainly didn't do anything wrong, on the contrary. To him it must have looked like Mr. Gillette was attacking me. He couldn't know that it was - insanity. I always knew I could rely on the lad; he's a very capable officer. Do you still think me a fool for accepting him as a midshipman on the  _ Blackberry _ ?"   
  
"I've never thought you to be a fool, Sir!" Wallace protested. "Never! I admit I had my doubts, but now..."   
  
"Now I will take care of this, Wally."   
  
Wallace recognised an invitation to leave when he heard it.   
  
"There's a lot of work waiting, Sir. With your permission I'll see what the carpenter's doing."   
  
"Permission granted. Thank you, Wally."   
  
Yes, they had weathered other storms, Wally and him. Two years of imprisonment and slavery, for example. The only reason why he had survived that ordeal was the knowledge that Teddy had been waiting for him. Would he have returned if he'd known that Teddy had died a year before? Probably not.   
  
What an absurd situation. Benham couldn't tell Jeremy that he had actually done Gillette a favour. It had been his wish, following his captain. His captain! Benham cursed James and Gillette to equal parts, tried to find some anger in his heart towards James, Gillette's flawless, perfect hero. And if not anger, then at least jealousy. Anything would be better than this numbness. It was almost like being dead.   
  
Benham closed his eyes and remembered Gillette surrounded by the midshipmen. He remembered that rare smile, the anger in his eyes during the supper with Greitzer and Groves. He also remembered that moment, that one short moment when Gillette had called him by his first name, just before he had been shot and gone overboard.   
  
It had been a terrible storm, and worse was to come, but yes, he'd weather this one as well. He was the captain - he had no choice.   
  
* * * **   
  
** _ "Two years and two months since he left England's shore,   
My bonny brave captain that I did adore…"  _ **  
  
** Somebody was softly warbling away, then humming, accompanied by an odd, scratching sound. Gillette woke up, slowly, feeling as if his head had been filled with cotton wool. He listened to the singing for a while, then his curiosity got the better of him and he opened his eyes. **   
  
** _ "Broken hearted I'll wander, broken hearted I'll remain   
Since my bonny brave captain in the wars he was slain..." _ **   
  
** A man was sitting on a chair next to him, a sketching pad on his knees, drawing. He was a good fifteen years older than himself and wore the uniform of a midshipman. His strawberry blond hair was held back in a pigtail; open buttons on the waistcoat, stains on his stockings and strands of hair which hung in his face made him look a bit untidy. A friendly but definitely not handsome face - the nose was too long, the neck too short, the face pockmarked. Still, his bearing was clearly the one of a gentleman. Gillette watched him for a while, wondering how skilled an artist with podgy fingers, nails chewed down to the quick, might be.    
  
The man looked up and gave Gillette an amicable smile.   
  
"You have been sleeping a long time," he stated, then returned his attention to his work. "You were born to act as a model for a painter. I hate it when models fidget and move around."   
  
Gillette blinked.   
  
"You are making a drawing of me?"   
  
"I took the liberty, yes. You have an interesting face."   
  
"Can I see it?"   
  
"Of course."   
  
Gillette sat up - slowly, very slowly, as his head was spinning - and the midshipman handed him the pad. Gillette took it, careful not to leave any fingerprints or smudges on the paper. After studying the sketch for a while, he nodded.   
  
"You have great talent. But I'm not half as elegant as you've drawn me."   
  
The midshipman laughed.   
  
"I have to disagree. Just look at that swan-neck of yours - if I wasn't already dead, I'd die for it!"   
  
"You're - dead?" Gillette almost dropped the pad. His conversational partner quickly reached for it and put it on the table behind him, out of harms way.   
  
"Of course I am. Would I be aboard the  _ Flying Dutchman _ if I wasn't? I've been very curious to make your acquaintance, Mr. Gillette. Captain Turner said you'd show up here sooner or later, and he was right."   
  
Captain Turner. The  _ Flying Dutchman _ . A dowdy-dressed midshipman. But what about Norrington?   
  
"What? Who?"   
  
The other grinned and shook his head.   
  
"How I've missed the intelligent conversations with officers! The navy hasn't changed a bit. I suppose you want me to fetch Mr. Norrington for you?"   
  
Gillette's fingers dug deep in the bolster of the chaise longue he had been lying on, and his face lit up.   
  
"He's here? So he's alive?"   
  
The midshipman folded his hands.   
  
"Yes. And no. But I'll leave that up to him to explain. Please forgive my curiosity, but I have a question before I leave. What is it like - being shot? What does it feel like? Is it painful?"   
  
"Being shot?"   
  
"Yes. See, I drowned. I'm afraid I've read too many books praising the romanticism of giving yourself to the sea. Let me assure you that it was not romantic in the least. Wet, cold, the burning pain in the lungs, the panic... so I wonder if your way has been more comfortable."   
  
This was completely absurd. A bizarre dream. He'd wake up any moment in his cabin aboard the  __ Blackberry , or in the brig, shaking his head. But this promised to be a dream featuring Norrington rather than a nightmare, so Gillette decided to indulge the strawberry blond figment of his imagination.   
  
"It just - happened. There was some pain, I think. I'm afraid I can't really remember. My apologies."   
  
"There is no need to apologise at all. It was only morbid curiosity on my part - I tend to be a bit tactless, I'm afraid."   
  
The midshipman stood up, sketching pad under his arm. Gillette admired the elegant, flowing movement, seemingly at odds with his appearance.   
  
"Who are you?" Gillette asked.   
  
The other smiled sheepishly.   
  
"I'm obviously not only tactless, but also very rude, Mr. Gillette. Please forgive me, I haven't introduced myself yet." He made a bow. "My name is Edward deVette. But you may call me Teddy." **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes: "Bonny Light Horseman" (also known as "Broken-hearted Wanderer") is a traditional tune of Irish origin which was very popular during the Napoleonic wars. There a dozens of versions; I took the liberty to turn the "light horseman" into a sailor. My apologies to the cavalry.


	11. Chapter 11

Gillette looked around the captain's cabin. _Will Turner's cabin_. Very tidy and cosy. Not exactly what he would have expected to find aboard a cursed ship. There were maps on the table and a writing slope; Gillette could see a batonnet of red sealing wax. It had been used; whom could the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ possibly write to? It was not like there was any way to send the letters off.  
  
The orderliness reminded Gillette of Norrington. There had been days when he had cursed his captain for making him rewrite reports five times because of a misspelled word or a blotch of ink in a journal. Once a bucket, forgotten on deck by a thoughtless ship's boy, had prompted Norrington to cut the crew's daily rum ration by fifty percent. Even Gillette had disagreed with that decision and tried to intervene, but Norrington wouldn't listen. It was such a typical thing for him to do - keeping his calm in the greatest storm, giving leeway to his men where any other captain would have punished, but losing his temper over a pointless, ridiculous thing like a bucket, disturbing the orderliness on deck.  
  
To think that the pedantic captain and the former commodore in rags returning to Port Royal had been the same man...  
  
The _Flying Dutchman_ wasn't equipped with a night cabin for her captain. Will Turner's cot was located in the back of the great cabin, behind a curtain. A drawing of Elizabeth Turner was pinned to the hull; Gillette guessed that Teddy had made it, following Will's description. Quite a likeness, considering he had never seen the former Miss Swann. What kind of captain might Will Turner be? Was he stern with his crew? Lenient? Gillette found it difficult to imagine Will Turner in command of a ship, and then even a cursed one! Gillette liked Will, he had been a friendly enough lad and grown up to be a good man, but if the rumours could be believed, he had literally lost his heart. God alone knew what else he had sacrificed.  
  
Gillette took a seat on the chair Teddy had previously been sitting on. He folded his hands and stared down at his shoes. So he was dead and aboard the _Flying Dutchman_ \- good. Norrington was here as well - excellent. Where would the journey go to? He had heard as many versions of the legend as he had asked people. Did the _Flying Dutchman_ carry the souls of the damned straight to hell? Or the righteous to paradise? Or did she just sail the Seven Seas for eternity, without any purpose at all? And where would the _Flying Dutchman_ carry _him_?  
  
"Thomas - good grief."  
  
Gillette jumped up. Hearing that voice again, after all this time, saying his name, came as a shock. He made a hesitant step forward, then halted, unable to do anything but stare.  
  
Norrington didn't look like the troubled man in Gillette's memory - Admiral Norrington of the EITC didn't exist anymore. Nor did Commodore James Norrington of the Royal Navy. The calm, serene man wearing an old-fashioned lieutenant's uniform with blue breeches was a memory of Gillette's youth, when he had served aboard the _Dauntless_ as a midshipman.  
  
Norrington closed the cabin door and shook his head.  
  
"You really shouldn't be here, Thomas." Upon seeing the crestfallen expression on Gillette's face, Norrington smiled - shyly and a little embarrassed. "However, I'd be a terrible liar if I said that I was not delighted to see you. I have missed you."  
  
"I'm happy to see you as well, Sir," Gillette stammered. "I have been looking for you. For a long time, Sir."  
  
"I know. And now you've found me. However, I hope you are aware that I can't approve of your actions."  
  
Norrington didn't wear a hat. Gillette could see a bow, holding the unpowdered brown hair back in a pigtail. He had no idea why this insignificant detail caught his attention. Maybe it was because there was no wig, that intimidating sign of authority and superiority, that he finally could move again.  
  
"I had to do it."  
  
Norrington tapped his fingers on the table. No change in his habits, and he still wore the large signet ring. Not that there was anything to seal on the _Flying Dutchman_ , Gillette thought.  
  
"Thomas, you abandoned your ship, right in the middle of a storm. You ignored your captain's orders and even attacked him. Had you acted like this under my command, I'd dragged you in front of a court martial for mutiny. Lucas trusted you, how could you disappoint him so? And what about Mr. Jeremy, the poor lad? He must feel terrible for shooting somebody he considered to be a friend. And all this because of _me_? I wouldn't have wanted that."  
  
Gillette paled. He didn't know what he had expected, but certainly not awkwardness and accusations. He couldn't even protest them, because Norrington was right. He had been irresponsible and jumped ship, and the worst thing about it was that he didn't feel any remorse at all. He knew what he wanted to say, the words were there, in his head, he had said them over and over in the long nights since Norrington's departure, but now he couldn't speak.  
  
Norrington slowly crossed the room, then he took his former lieutenant's hand and pressed it to his chest. At first, Gillette didn't know what to make of that gesture, but then he understood. There was no heartbeat, no breathing. He wanted to ask - _had_ to ask what Norrington was if not alive, but he didn't dare to.  
  
"You silly boy," Norrington said lovingly, caressing Gillette's cheek. "All this for me? I'm not part of your world anymore, Thomas."  
  
Norrington's hand wasn't cold, but still Gillette shuddered, and his own heart beat so fast that he thought it could be heard even on the fighting-top of the _Flying Dutchman_.  
  
His own heart - it was beating. The realisation that he, Thomas Gillette, was alive and talking to a dead man finally hit him, and he swallowed hard, trying not to show his fear.  
  
But Norrington could read in Gillette's face like in an open book.  
  
"Don't be scared, Thomas. I'm not a ghost to haunt you; I'm still aboard the _Flying Dutchman_. Like everybody else here, I'm waiting. And learning."  
  
"Waiting for whom? For what? And what do you have to learn?"  
  
Norrington followed the outline of Gillette's lips with his finger. At first Gillette flinched, but then he pressed a kiss on the tip, and was rewarded with a grateful smile.  
  
"All of us are here because of unfinished business. Bootstrap, for example - he has to catch up on a lifetime he hasn't been there for his son. Others have to let go, forgive. Sometimes their enemies, sometimes themselves. They can't leave this ship until they let go."  
  
"Leave? Where to?"  
  
Norrington shrugged.  
  
"Who knows? We'll find out once we go there. But it must be a good place, because those of our crew who leave go with a light heart."  
  
"What is your unfinished business?"  
  
"You."  
  
"Me?"  
  
"Of course. That can't surprise you. I never thanked you for all you did, I never apologised for my harsh words, and I never told you that I love you. Three good reasons to sail on the _Flying Dutchman_."  
  
Norrington took Gillette's hands in his own, running his thumbs over the knuckles. "Thomas, you can't stay here. Your time hasn't come yet, and there's still so much to do and see for you."  
  
Gillette freed his hands of Norrington's hold.  
  
"I will not return without you. Barbossa has returned, Sparrow has returned. Why can't you?"  
  
"Because nobody should return, Thomas. Some borders may not be crossed."  
  
"Those two shouldn't have returned, indeed! But you are not a pirate!"  
  
Norrington shook his head. Gillette almost expected him to sigh, but of course that couldn't happen. Again, he felt that cold, uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He made a step backwards.  
  
"You refuse to return? Fine. Then I will stay."  
  
"I won't allow it."  
  
Gillette closed his fingers into fists.  
  
"There is nothing you can allow or forbid me anymore, Mr. Norrington, Sir! If you want me to leave, you'll have to throw me overboard!"  
  
Gillette rushed out of the cabin without a further word, slamming the door. There was no point in following him; he wouldn't listen. Norrington was grateful when the door opened and Edward deVette entered, looking very concerned.  
  
"I was almost run over by a very angry red-haired lieutenant who swore a blue streak on your head. He could make a marine blush with that vocabulary. I assume it didn't go well?"  
  
"Not well at all. I can't make him understand that he shouldn't be here, probably because I want him to stay. I want it so much, Teddy, can you understand?"  
  
The painter put a hand on Norrington's shoulder, a friendly gesture of comfort.  
  
"If anybody aboard this ship understands, then it's me. But that's another thing to learn: it takes two to let go, James. Maybe I should have a word with him? Who knows, between us tragic heroes, we might be able to find a solution for the problem."  
  
Norrington nodded. "You are probably right, but I hope you won't hold it against me if I don't wish you good luck, Teddy."  
  
"Just don't hold it against me if I should be successful, James. Eternity can be terrible in grumpy company."  
  
* * *  
  
The _Lydia_ had weathered the storm well, just like the two other ships of the convoy. Lieutenant Dee was actually rather surprised upon hearing Captain Benham's report of the storm's ferocity.  
  
"Looking at the state of the _Blackberry_ , I have no doubt the storm has been terrible, Sir. As we caught up with you within a day, I assumed we had been close by. But we must have drifted off further than I thought. We had a bit of rough sea, but hardly any damage."  
  
Benham, pacing up and down his cabin like a caged tiger, arched his eyebrows, and Mr. Jeremy looked very surprised.  
  
"A bit of rough sea? I'd call that the understatement of the century! We have lost nine men!"  
  
"Thankfully, no lives were lost aboard the _Lydia_ , Sir, but I'm afraid we... lost Captain Greitzer. Sort of."  
  
Benham halted abruptly. "I beg your pardon? How can you lose a captain? _Sort of_?"  
  
Dee looked embarrassed.  
  
"The barrel's gone. The brandy barrel, Sir. The one holding Captain Greitzer's body. It has disappeared, Sir."  
  
"Good grief, Mr. Dee - stop talking in riddles! Brandy barrels don't have the habit of growing legs and walking away all by themselves! How can you possibly lose such an item?"  
  
Dee shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He had to be careful how to word his reply; Benham was irritable and in a bad mood.  
  
"I don't know yet, Sir. I only know that it's gone. I suspect that some superstitious seamen threw it overboard, but none of my inquiries cited any answers. Nobody has seen or heard anything, not even our marines. Would it be possible for Mr. Jeremy to assist me on the _Lydia_ for a day? There are some seamen I haven't questioned yet. Lieutenant Groves used to give them their orders, and as he's dead… they barely speak any English, Sir. Mr. Jeremy might be able to translate their words."  
  
Benham clasped his hands behind his back. "Of course, of course. Mr. Jeremy, you will accompany Mr. Dee."  
  
"Yes, Sir."  
  
"Mr. Dee, I trust you to return Mr. Jeremy in one piece and unharmed. If I lose another officer, I might find myself holystoning the deck of this ship rather than commanding it. That aside, I wouldn't want him to miss his lieutenant's exam."  
  
Jeremy risked a smile, and Benham pinched the bridge of his nose. Dee thought that the captain looked very tired and old. He had never seen him like that, not even through those two terrible years in slavery.  
  
"The list of oddities I will have to explain to the Admiralty is becoming alarmingly long, Mr. Dee. I trust you are aware of the incident concerning Mr. Gillette?"  
  
Dee, who had learned the whole story in every detail from Mr. Wallace, exchanged a quick look with Jeremy, but the midshipman turned his head away.  
  
"I only heard that he went overboard in the storm," Dee replied carefully.  
  
"Then you have heard all there is to know. Dismiss."  
  
* * *  
  
Benham tossed and turned in his cot. He was dead tired, and if this state of insomnia continued, he would have to hand the command of the _Blackberry_ over to Lieutenant Dee. His exhausted mind began to play tricks on him. During supper, he had seen Gillette from the corner of his eyes. Last night, he had been certain to hear James Norrington's voice, shouting orders. It was maddening.  
  
After two hours, Benham had enough and stood up. He put on his breeches, not bothering with stockings or even shoes, and went to the great cabin, where he first opened his sea chest, then a bottle of whiskey. He ignored the tumblers and drank straight from the bottle. Possibly a crime punishable by death in Scotland, but this was not about pleasure. It was about getting drunk as quickly as possible, numbing the pain, switching off his brain.  
  
While the alcohol warmed his stomach and filled his head with cotton wool, Benham began to envy Captain Greitzer. No more trouble, no more responsibilities, and a final resting place surrounded by the best brandy the navy supplied. Benham knew that Norrington had always kept a barrel ready, just in case he should die at sea. Ridiculous. What family could possibly want to see a loved one returning home as a bloody pickle? No barrel for him. Benham couldn't care less what would happen to his own remains.  
  
Then again, it might have been nice if Teddy had chosen a way of suicide that would at least have allowed for some sort of final resting place. Somewhere Benham could have gone to for a chat, once in a while. But Teddy probably knew that Benham would have put the most hideous and tasteless memorial on his grave - something very large with many winged putti, surrounding a weeping mermaid - all this just to punish him for leaving his lover behind. Despite his sorrows, Benham had to smile. Dear, dear Teddy - he knew him all too well.  
  
Benham sat on his sea chest for well half an hour, and when he stood up, the whiskey had done its duty. He was four sheets to the wind, at least, and careened towards his cot, bumping into the door frame first. Benham rubbed his hurting head and decided that he was now in the perfect mood to be angry with Thomas Gillette.  
  
That stupid lad! It could have been perfect! He would have taken his time to win Gillette over - seduction was an art and demanded care and patience, especially if there was someone so precious at stake. Of course, he would have sent Gillette to serve on a different ship; Benham knew his own temper and passion well enough to be aware that he wouldn't have had the strength to resist temptation in the long term.  
  
Damned be the stubborn bastard - why didn't Gillette give him the chance to try and make him smile again? Benham was convinced that he could have done that. Making Gillette smile again. Love again. Live again.  
  
Benham took another swig, then dropped the bottle.  
  
"You bloody idiot," he grumbled into the dark, addressing the recently deceased Thomas Gillette.  
  
"He's still young, give him some time, Blackberry," he heard Teddy's amused voice next to his ear. "And I would actually have liked a weeping mermaid."  
  
Benham cursed and rolled over, trying to find the bottle. Quite obviously, he wasn't drunk enough yet.


	12. Chapter 12

"You don't look very happy."   
  
Gillette, leaning on the railing and staring out into the fog surrounding the _Flying Dutchman_ , turned his head.   
  
"I have no reason."   
  
"You're in a byngish mood - I see. How unfortunate."   
  
Teddy had changed his stockings; the ones he currently wore were not stained, but mended. Very badly mended, Gillette noticed. And what on earth did "byngish" mean? Teddy was a riddle, but a charming one; he felt comfortable in his presence. In a way, the painter reminded him of Captain Benham.   
  
They stood for a while in silence, then Gillette couldn't hold back anymore, he just had to ask. "My apologies for being so blunt and forward, but what is your unfinished business?"   
  
Teddy smiled and closed the top button of his waistcoat.   
  
"I thought you'd never ask. The harsh truth is that I'm here because I've been a fool who made a terrible mistake. Artists tend to be a little melodramatic at times. I know I am - _was_ \- and that's why I'm here. When news reached me that Lucas' ship had been wrecked on the Barbary Coast and all men lost, I thought that life had become meaningless. And really, how could I have continued without him?"   
  
"Lucas? Benham? _Captain Benham_?"   
  
"Yes, Captain Lucas Benham. Judging from the flabbergasted expression on your face you aren't aware of our friendship's nature. The one he was about to offer you."   
  
Gillette's head began to hurt; tiny hot needles in his eyeballs. Benham hadn't struggled during the last moment of their fight. Gillette had called him Lucas. _Lucas_. He liked the sound of it.   
  
"Captain Benham is a sensible man," Gillette said carefully. "He would have never mentioned such a delicate matter."   
  
Teddy wiggled his eyebrows. "Don't be so uptight. I don't hold it against him. Or you. On the contrary, it makes me happy to know that he hasn't lost his joy in life. Now where have I been with my story - ah yes. So, for weeks and months I sat at home, with nobody but the dogs for company, and one fine day I decided that it was enough. I threw myself from a cliff, and of course it was neither romantic nor dramatic. It was quite ugly, painful and unpleasant. I should have shot myself. And I'll never forgive myself that Macbeth drowned in a vein attempt at rescuing me."   
  
"Macbeth?"   
  
"One of my dogs. I think you already made the acquaintance of Richard III. and Henry VIII.?"   
  
Macbeth - Richard III. - Henry VIII. - good grief. "I did. They are aboard the _Blackberry_. So you - died?"   
  
"As you can see. Died and found myself here on the _Flying Dutchman_ , wearing this bloody uniform. I suppose that's some sort of punishment. Midshipman! I hated the navy. Even more so because this honourable institution kept Lucas away from me. The only time I really enjoyed myself as a midshipman was the day when I finally worked up the courage to kiss Lucas, behind a barrel in the hold. He didn't object at all, I have to add. See, if I'd had just a little more faith and patience, I wouldn't have thrown my life away. I should have waited for him. Lucas promised me once that he'd always return, and he did. He survived slavery and torture just to return and learn that I was dead. I'll never forgive myself for the pain I caused him. And now he has lost you as well."   
  
Gillette shook his head.   
  
"I doubt that my loss will have much impact on Captain Benham."   
  
"That's where you're wrong about my Blackberry. He's-"   
  
"Blackberry?"   
  
"That's what my mother used to call those with black hair, dark eyes and pale skin. And not to forget the freckles. I love his freckles. Nineteen he has on his nose. I should know, I've counted them every day he was with me."   
  
Gillette wrinkled his nose; the mere thought of a man spending his time counting the freckles on another man's nose was ridiculous. That aside, Norrington had too many freckles to count each of them.   
  
Teddy elbowed Gillette in the side and winked.   
  
"You're a hypocrite, Mr. Gillette. But I don't mind, your kind of hypocrisy does have a charming touch. Please follow me; as you seem to have set your mind on staying aboard the _Flying Dutchman_ , you should make yourself familiar with the ship. We'll start with the lower deck - know your crew, and you'll know your fate."   
  
Gillette followed Teddy, slightly puzzled by the artist's cryptic remark.   
  
* * *   
  
Lieutenant Henry Tigg led the way to the lower deck of the _Lydia_. He was a good five years older than Mr. Jeremy, but looking at the nervous, insecure man, Jeremy couldn't help but feeling superior. Not that he hadn't been nervous, or felt less uncomfortable aboard the _Lydia_ , but at least he didn't show it.   
  
"There they are, Mr. Jeremy," Tigg said, and gestured at a group of five men, three of them standing, two of them sitting on a sea chest. When they saw the two officers approaching, they immediately stood up.   
  
"Landsmen, all of them, but they learned quickly and are now quite skilled," Tigg explained.   
  
Jeremy gave the five a stern look, but none of them lowered their gaze; their faces didn't show the expression of compliance Jeremy knew from the landsmen aboard the _Blackberry_.   
  
"Will you need my assistance, Mr. Jeremy? If not, I would - there are some things-" Tigg said, then he broke off and chewed his lower lip, a picture of awkwardness. Jeremy, more than happy to get the man out of his hair, hastened to assure Tigg that his presence wasn't required at all.   
  
Tigg breathed a sigh of relief.   
  
"Thank you, Mr. Jeremy. Mr. Dee might need my help."   
  
Jeremy nodded, fully aware that Lieutenant Dee would need Tigg as much as a third leg. He waited until Tigg had left, then he turned to address the group of men, arching an eyebrow.   
  
"You are landsmen, I hear? Not able to speak English? How very odd. The last time we met, you spoke it perfectly well, and you were very able seamen."   
  
The oldest of the five stepped forward and made a deep bow.   
  
"You must forgive us - depending on the situation, pretending not to understand a command can be very helpful, even if one has to put up with the rope end from time to time. Those who can't be asked questions will not have to give answers."   
  
"You'd deserve the cat for this farce! What are you doing aboard a ship of the East India Trading Company, anyway?"   
  
The man shrugged.   
  
"Staying ashore would have been our certain death. We have to make a living. We have tried to find another ship, but..." He broke off, and Jeremy appreciated the man's tactfulness.   
  
"I know. No ship would accept a man who sailed under my father's flag. How very strange to meet you here, of all the places!"   
  
"We recognised you, despite the years that have passed since we have last met. We hoped that you would come aboard the _Lydia_ again. This can't be a coincidence, Mou-"   
  
Jeremy cut him off.   
  
"My name is Jeremy. Midshipman Jeremy of the Royal Navy. If you want to keep your tongue, you better remember that. All of you."   
  
The man bowed again.   
  
"As you wish. We are very happy to see you are alive and well, Mr. Jeremy. Is there anything we can do for you?"   
  
It took a moment for Jeremy to collect his thoughts and deal with this unexpected encounter with his past. He could feel the old pain and bitterness in his heart, but now was not the moment to allow his anger to take over his mind.   
  
"I wish to know what happened to the barrel with Captain Greitzer's body."   
  
The men exchanged a quick look.   
  
"The barrel has gone overboard, Mr. Jeremy."   
  
"I know that. I am not in the mood for silly banter. How did the barrel go overboard, that's what I want to know. Answer me, and make haste!"   
  
For a moment there was silence, then a thin man with an eye patch stepped forward. Jeremy remembered him well - his nickname was One Eye, and as a boy, Jeremy had been very fascinated by the empty socket behind the patch. He had asked to see it over and over again, much to his mother's displeasure.   
  
"It was us who did it, Mr. Jeremy," One Eye said. "It was the captain's wish."   
  
"How can you know what Captain Greitzer wanted?" Jeremy asked impatiently. "No fairytales, I wish to hear the truth!"   
  
"I wouldn't lie at my old captain's son," One Eye stated, looking very insulted. "Captain Greitzer always said that he wanted to be buried at sea. It was the right thing to do. The lieutenant gave us the order to throw the barrel overboard during the storm, and so we did it."   
  
Jeremy lost his patience.   
  
"This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" he cried. "Are you trying to tell me that Lieutenant Tigg gave you the order to do such an outrageous thing?"   
  
"No," One Eye replied. "Not Lieutenant Tigg. It was one of your officers, Mr. Jeremy. He said his name was Norrington."   
  
* * *   
  
Gillette heard the laughter of children. A rather unexpected noise aboard a haunted ship, but by now he had accepted that things aboard the _Flying Dutchman_ were not at all as he had assumed.   
  
"The ship's boys," Teddy explained. "They are obsessed with marbles; worse than the men with dice. Have you played marbles as a boy, Mr. Gillette?"   
  
"Of course." Teddy's question woke memories in Gillette, memories of bright summer days, the scent of wild flowers, the feeling of the field-path's soft dust and sharp stones under his naked feet, the taste of clover and sour dock and - blackberries. Gillette closed his eyes for a moment, and it was as if he could feel the sun's warmth on his skin, and the tickling of the grass around his ankles.   
  
He opened his eyes. No sunshine. No grass. No flowers. He was aboard the _Flying Dutchman_.   
  
They approached the small group. Three boys on their knees, staring at the fourth player whose turn it was to shoot. A boy of about seven years bit his nails. Gillette concluded that it was his marble which was at risk. They all held their breath when the fourth player concentrated, threw his marble - and missed. Spectacularly.   
  
The three boys cheered, and Will Turner shook his head.   
  
"I can't believe it. I've missed again! I demand revanche!"   
  
The boy laughed.   
  
"You will only lose again, captain!"   
  
"I'm afraid you are right, Mr. Greitzer. To sleep now, you terrible lot!"   
  
Gillette stared at Will, then at the boy, and finally at Teddy.   
  
"Greitzer?" he croaked. "Is that... is he...?"   
  
Teddy nodded.   
  
"Wait and see."   
  
The three boys stood up and patted the dust off their breeches. Greitzer picked up the rest of the clay marbles and put them in his pocket, then he went to his hammock. He was too small to reach it; somebody would have to help him.   
  
"Eat more and grow faster," a young lad said, ruffling Greitzer's hair. "Can't spend my days looking after tiny tots!" He lifted the boy in his hammock. "Now sleep, and let the captain win tomorrow, just for once. This is embarrassing."   
  
Greitzer poked his tongue out at the lad.   
  
"You're only jealous because you're always losing."   
  
"Terribly jealous!" The lad took a blanket and covered the boy carefully. "Now sleep, though I can't imagine that it's very comfortable to sleep on so many marbles. Never mind, it's your arse that will get bruised, not mine."   
  
Greitzer muttered something, and the lad laughed. He turned towards Gillette and Teddy, and a lamp threw some light on his face.   
  
Gillette staggered backwards, and Teddy quickly took his arm, steadying him.   
  
"Oh God. Oh good God. Daniel - is that you? Daniel?"   
  
The lad inclined his head, looking at Gillette in bewilderment.   
  
"Yes, my name is Daniel, Sir. Daniel Groves. Do you know me?"   
  
Gillette couldn't answer. He just stared at the lad with the blue neckerchief, the lad who had once been a lieutenant just like him - and his best friend.   
  
"Mr. Gillette has only just joined the crew, Mr. Groves. He's still very confused. Go to sleep now," Will said, giving Gillette a warning glare.   
  
"Yes, Captain Turner," Groves replied, and trotted off to his own hammock. He looked back over his shoulder, and Gillette thought that, for the fracture of a second, he had seen recognition in the brown eyes.   
  
"You let him win again, didn't you?" Teddy asked, and Will grinned.   
  
"Of course. But he's getting better; give him another month or so, and I won't have to pretend that he's winning. I wonder if my boy is good at playing marbles as well."   
  
Gillette felt sorry for Will when he saw the wistful expression on the captain's face.   
  
"Have you seen him, Mr. Gillette?" Will asked. "And my wife? Are they both well? What are they doing? Are they well cared for? What do they look like? Is he studying?"   
  
"I - yes. Yes, they are well," Gillette replied, overwhelmed by Will's questions. He was tempted to say that no, he had no bloody clue what Mrs. Turner and Mr. Turner junior were doing, and that he couldn't care less, but that would have been cruel. Will didn't deserve such harsh words; his fate was bad enough.   
  
"You son is still a wee baby, Captain Turner."   
  
"Oh - yes, of course." Will scratched his head and smiled sheepishly. "It's a bit difficult to keep track of time aboard the _Dutchman_ , you see."   
  
"I understand. They are well cared for and are both healthy. Captain Benham and Governor Green have been very caring and generous."   
  
It was good to see the relief on Will's face. He was a good man. Just like James Norrington, Will Turner shouldn't be here, separated from wife and son, no matter how much Gillette disliked said wife.   
  
Will blinked.   
  
"You still don't like her, do you? No, don't answer. I know."   
  
Teddy quickly changed the subject.   
  
"Captain, I think Mr. Gillette would appreciate an explanation for - you know." He gestured in direction of Greitzer's hammock.   
  
"The ship's boys?" Will pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. "Everybody has a second chance. Mr. Groves took Mr. Greitzer's life, now he's responsible for him. We will see if he will seize this chance. So far, it looks well."   
  
Gillette could feel a hand on his shoulder. When he turned his head, he could see Norrington standing behind him, smiling.   
  
"Letting go and forgive, Thomas. That's what it is all about." He went to the hammock where the smallest of the three boys was standing, looking helpless and a bit embarrassed. It was obvious that he was looking for a way to get in his hammock. Gillette wondered why the boy didn't simply ask one of the men for help, but judging from the determined expression on his face he was not one to ask for anything, rather preferred to get his things done by himself.   
  
"You can stand here all night, young man, but there won't grow a beanstalk for you," Norrington said, folding his arms over his chest.   
  
The boy pouted. "I could take a bucket."   
  
"You could. But wouldn't it be easier if you simply asked for help?"   
  
"If you help me, I will owe you something."   
  
Norrington shook his head.   
  
"Not everything has a price. Bread has, and wine, but not helpfulness."   
  
The boy considered Norrington's words for a while, still suspicious.   
  
"You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"   
  
"No, I wouldn't. You have my word."   
  
A sigh, then the boy nodded.   
  
"Would you help me, Sir?"   
  
"But of course."   
  
Norrington lifted the boy up and lay him in the hammock.   
  
"That wasn't too difficult, was it?"   
  
"Thank you, Sir."   
  
"My pleasure. Sleep well."   
  
Norrington returned to Gillette, who stared at the boy in the hammock with unconcealed hatred.   
  
"Would you have helped him, Thomas?" Norrington asked.   
  
Gillette's fingers closed into fists, knuckles standing out white and fingernails digging painfully in his palms.   
  
"No," he hissed. "Never!"   
  
Teddy and Will didn't seem to be surprised about the answer. Norrington looked at the boy, then turned to Gillette. "I knew this would be your answer," he said. "And that's why you can't join this crew. At least not now."


	13. Chapter 13

Norrington stood next to Gillette on the quarterdeck, hands clasped behind his back. This was a familiar pose. Gillette had seen him standing like this countless  times: solid as a rock, unmoved. Benham was usually pacing up and down the quarterdeck, talking to three people at the same time, always thinking one step ahead, being everywhere and nowhere and still not missing a thing happening aboard his ship.   
  
Very tedious.   
  
Gillette wondered what Benham and the crew of the _Blackberry_ were doing at this moment. Had the ship weathered the storm? Had there been any losses? Had they already made port in Port Royal again? And what might Benham's thoughts be? Had the captain already forgotten about him, Gillette the madman? Somehow that thought bothered Gillette. He wanted to matter. Be of some importance to Benham.   
  
"You are, Thomas."   
  
Gillette, lost in thoughts, jumped when Norrington addressed him.   
  
"What?"   
  
"Of importance to Lucas. One of the many reasons why you shouldn't be here."   
  
"I'm here because of you. I don't understand this ship, its mission - or you. I hoped for answers, but all I got so far were more questions!"   
  
Norrington looked down at his shoes.   
  
"I'm sorry, Thomas. Please ask whatever you want, I'll reply - if I know the answer, that is."   
  
"How did you die?"   
  
"Bootstrap Bill ran my sword through me. But before you do anything unwise: he wasn't himself, his mind was troubled. I hold no grudge."   
  
"And why did he kill you?"   
  
Norrington straightened the cuffs of his shirts, a certain sign that he felt uncomfortable.   
  
"I was securing the escape of Elizabeth and her men. It was the only way."   
  
"Nonsense," Gillette snapped. "You could have joined them, nobody forced you to stay aboard this bloody ship! You could have returned!"   
  
"And then? What then, Thomas? Tell me. Return to Port Royal? To you? What would my life have been like? Or yours? My time had come, and at least I died for a worthy purpose."   
  
"You died for _her_."  
  
"Is that what Elizabeth told you?"   
  
"She said you sacrificed your life for her."   
  
To Gillette's great surprise, Norrington smiled.   
  
"She is right. Then again, she is not."   
  
"I don't understand..."   
  
Norrington gave Gillette a sidewise glance.   
  
"In the last minute of my life I remembered who I was, Thomas. I would have died for Jack Sparrow or anybody else in her place as well. I remembered that I've once sworn that I would serve others, not only myself."   
  
There was silence between them. Gillette thought about Norrington's words, and how they applied to himself. Was he serving others now, or only himself? If he was honest - and Gillette tried to be - he had to admit that his actions had been rather selfish, driven by his love and longing, without regard to anybody's feelings but his own or the consequences of his actions.   
  
It began to drizzle; the tiny drops covered his red hair with a thin, wet veil. Fog and sea and clouds became one, and Gillette had the uncomfortable feeling of being lost in this silent greyness. When he licked his lips, he noticed that the water was salty. Another reminder that he was in a different world. And whether he liked it or not, it was not his world.   
  
"The worst thing was being alone. Knowing that there was no way to reach you. Those few weeks at sea on the _Flying Dutchman_ were what I imagine hell to be. Ten years must be endless torture for a man who is separated from his loved ones. Thomas, I will offer Captain Turner to take over his duties and become the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_. I want him to return home. I don't want his boy to grow up without a father, and I don't want Elizabeth to be alone."   
  
Norrington could feel Gillette radiating disapproval, bitterness and anger. Elizabeth Turner's well-being was none of his concern. Norrington put his hand on Gillette's arm, and was grateful when he didn't shake it off.   
  
"I will command this ship and wait patiently for the moment when my first lieutenant returns to me. Once your time has come, you will be by my side again. Until then, I want you to live. I could order you to leave the _Flying Dutchman_. I could even force you. But I won't do any such thing. Instead I beg you, Thomas - please return."   
  
For a long while, Gillette remained silent. Then he covered Norrington's hand with his own.   
  
"I have your word that you will keep the position of first lieutenant available for me?"   
  
"You will always be my first, Thomas."   
  
Gillette didn't let go of Norrington's hand. He looked up and saw in Norrington's eyes a question, something that had not been discussed yet.   
  
"James?"   
  
"I - may I ask you for one last favour? There is something you can do for me - for all of us aboard the _Flying Dutchman_."   
  
Gillette smiled.   
  
"Anything, James. Anything."   
  
* * *   
  
From the corner of his eyes, Gillette could see the stack of letters on the small table. Some were addressed to people who were probably dead for a century. But he would still deliver them, even if he had to deposit them on withered headstones or stick them in grave mounds. A good number had been written by himself, being the scribe again, during the last two days, for those men aboard the _Flying Dutchman_ who had never learned to write.   
  
The content of those letters were all the same - declarations of love, petitions for forgiveness, countless apologies. Most of the men who had given him a letter for a loved one had disappeared; at least Gillette had not seen them again. Maybe they had finished their business?   
  
Will Turner was still there, though. He had placed a stack of sealed letters in front of Gillette, all of them addressed in a very neat hand to "Mrs. William Turner and Mr. William Turner."   
  
"For my wife," he had explained, a little embarrassed. "Will you give them to her? She must be worried."   
  
Gillette had gnashed his teeth but promised that he would, indeed, make sure that Elizabeth Turner would receive all her husband's letters. He didn't promise to deliver them personally, though - he had to draw the line somewhere.   
  
Norrington chuckled and pressed a kiss on Gillette's neck, just below the ear. He was rewarded with the pleasant feeling of his lover's fingers drawing lazy patterns on his back. Gillette was still a bit dizzy and wearied by their love-making. Good words - "love-making". Accurate - at least this time. Their encounter had been nothing like the pitiable coupling back in Port Royal at all, which had been little more than a desperate last-ditch attempt to save Norrington's sanity and had left Gillette miserable and heart-broken. It had been a mistake; had him left wondering if he had meant anything to Norrington at all.   
  
Now he knew, and with that knowledge came peace. He had to leave, yes, but one day he would return, and he would be welcome.   
  
"Has Teddy given you a letter as well?" Norrington asked. He wrapped a strand of Gillette's hair around his finger, let go, did the same thing over and over again and was happy with it.   
  
"No, he hasn't."   
  
"What have you two been talking about then?"   
  
Gillette blinked.   
  
"I asked him if he would return if he were in my place. He said he wouldn't hesitate a moment. Why are you asking?"   
  
"Curiosity, nothing else. Will you tell Lucas about all this?"   
  
Gillette looked at the stack of letters. He thought of the ship's boys and their marbles, of Will Turner. And he thought of Teddy. How could he possibly tell Captain Benham about this?   
  
"I'd be locked up in Bedlam for the rest of my life. Who knows if this is even real - maybe I'm dreaming, and I'm only seeing you because I want to. Maybe I have lost my mind."   
  
Norrington caressed Gillette's cheek, his fingernails slightly scratching over the skin.   
  
"Should you ever decide to tell Lucas - if the discussion should ever come up - will you give him a message from me?"   
  
"Of course."   
  
"Ask him to burn the book."   
  
"What book?"   
  
"He will know."   
  
Gillette was not happy with that answer, but he was too tired to dig deeper. His limbs felt like lead, and he could barely keep his eyes open. It was annoying; he wanted to enjoy the sight of Norrington's face as long as possible.   
  
"Give in, Thomas. You're tired, you should sleep. I will watch over you."   
  
Tiny kisses on his face, caressing fingers on his skin, a loving kiss, tasting of the sea, then the bliss of a deep, undisturbed sleep.   
  
* * *   
  
Mr. Wallace found Mr. Jeremy sitting on one of the coops, hunched over a book and seemingly lost in study. The fact that he hadn't turned a page for half an hour supported Wallace's decision to have a word with the lad. He leaned on the top coop, next to Jeremy's legs, ignoring the loud protests of the fowl.   
  
"Pardon me, Sir, but Mr. Reynolds was allowed to leave sick bay. I thought you might want to know."   
  
Jeremy looked up.   
  
"Thank you, Mr. Wallace. That's good news, for a change."   
  
Wallace nodded.   
  
"Not much of that lately, I'm afraid."   
  
"Indeed not."   
  
Jeremy slapped his book close.   
  
"Mr. Wallace, may I ask you a question?"   
  
"Certainly."   
  
"Will you answer me truthfully?"   
  
"I always do, Sir."   
  
"Good." Jeremy put the book aside and folded his hands over his knee. "I know that I have done the right thing, Mr. Wallace. And I would do it again, if I was in the same situation. Yet I still feel as if I was a common murderer. Why is that so if my actions have been right?"   
  
Wallace scratched his head.   
  
"Well, I'd say I'd be worried more if you didn't feel bad about it, Sir. A life is a life; takes nine months to give it but only a second to take it, as Captain Benham often says. And Mr. Gillette was a fine man. You couldn't know about his insanity, and even if - it would have been impossible to tell if the captain was in danger or not. I don't know if it's a help to you or not, Sir, but I think Lieutenant Gillette would have been very proud of you. Really, he would have."   
  
Jeremy slipped off the scoop and went to the railing. Wallace followed him, standing next to the midshipman.   
  
"Sometimes I think the sea is endless, Mr. Wallace. I know I shouldn't feel fear, but it's a scary thought that he's out there now, somewhere. Do you think he's in a good place?"   
  
"I have no doubt about that, Sir. I don't know where Lieutenant Gillette is, but-"   
  
"Mr. Wallace, look at that!" Jeremy interrupted him, and grasped Wallace's arm, suddenly very excited. "Can you see that?"   
  
Wallace squinted, then he whistled through his teeth.   
  
"A boat?"   
  
"Indeed! I will inform the captain immediately!"   
  
Jeremy hurried to fetch Captain Benham, shouting some commands. Men gathered on deck, staring out at the calm sea.   
  
"Debris from a wrecked ship," one said. "Driftwood," suggested another. Wallace said nothing, but to him it was obvious that it was a boat, maybe even one of their own, lost in the storm.   
  
* * *   
  
"You are right, Mr. Jeremy," Benham confirmed, looking through the spy glass. "It is a boat. And it's not empty."   
  
Benham turned to his men.   
  
"Launch the boats!" he yelled. "There might be a castaway aboard! My compliments, your eyes are sharp like those of an eagle, Mr. Jeremy."   
  
It was a dorey, approached quickly by the two boats of the _Blackberry_. Despite the spy glass, Benham couldn't tell whether the person lying in it was alive or not. He hoped that his men wouldn't be confronted with the sight of a corpse which had been exposed to the sun for several days.   
  
One of the boats had reached the dory, dragged it close with a pike pole and took it in tow. Benham wished the boats would speed up their return to the _Blackberry_ , but then again, it was better they took their time rather than losing the dory and its freight. What a good thing there was a lull in the wind - highly unusual in this part of the West Indies.   
  
Benham began to feel uneasy.   
  
"Can you make out the ship's name on the dorey, Mr. Jeremy?" he asked, and passed the spy glass to the midshipman.   
  
Jeremy had a closer look, the tip of his tongue showing between his lips. It was another one of those little quirks he had copied from Gillette, and seeing it was a stab in Benham's heart. That idiot. That stupid, thoughtless, obsessed, loveable idiot.   
  
The boats were now very close, they would reach the _Blackberry_ any moment.   
  
"That's not possible..." Jeremy murmured.   
  
"What? What? Good grief, lad, speak!" Benham snapped impatiently.   
  
Jeremy returned the spy glass to his captain.   
  
"I could be wrong, but to me it reads like _'Vliegende Hollander'_ , Sir."   
  
"Nonsense!" Benham glared angrily at Jeremy, then he hurried without a further word to the group of seamen who were busy heaving the castaway from the dory aboard the _Blackberry_. It was a man; Benham couldn't see his face as one of the men stood in the way, but judging by the uniform he wore, the castaway was a midshipman.   
  
"He's alive!" somebody cried. "Fetch some blankets and rum!"   
  
Wallace didn't join the crowd, he looked at Jeremy who clung to the railing, pale and shaken to the core.   
  
"Mr. Jeremy, pardon me for asking, but why was the captain so upset about that name?"   
  
Jeremy stared at the dorey. He heard a heavy, thudding noise - the castaway had been heaved aboard the _Blackberry_. The very moment the man touched the deck, the dorey began to wither and turn to dust, blown away by a soft breeze, ending the lull of the wind.   
  
"It is nothing, Mr. Wallace," Jeremy said. "I must have been misread it."


	14. Chapter 14

Captain Benham wiped the sweat off his forehead, leaving a smudge. Mr. Wallace considered mentioning it, but then decided against it. Benham's clothes showed numerous grass stains, his breeches were dirty from kneeling on the ground. One smudge more or less really didn't make any difference.   
  
"Now look at this, it really worked, Wally! Lieutenant Gillette certainly is a genius, at least as far as gardening is concerned."   
  
Wallace eyed the three slugs and various dead flies, drifting in the beer-filled bowl. Drowned in ale - at least their death had been a happy one.   
  
"Well, he was right about the slugs, Sir," Wallace replied, deciding to keep his opinion about Thomas Gillette's genius or the lack thereof to himself.   
  
Benham, still crouching on the ground, checked the cabbage plant for possible damage, and noticed with great satisfaction that it looked healthier and greener than ever before.   
  
"Slugs are drunkards, Wally. Another interesting thing we've learned during our stay here. Have you any news regarding Mr. Gillette's state of health?"   
  
"Mr. Jeremy hasn't returned from Fort Charles yet, Sir. But last thing I've heard, Mr. Gillette's recovering from the fever, and he seems to have stopped babbling nonsense about ghosts, pardon my French, Sir."   
  
"I don't know your French, so she can do whatever pleases her." Benham found another slug, plucked it from one of his precious cabbages, took his knife and cut the animal in half. "Bloody beasts. They're everywhere. I'm at loss for words, Wally. At least as far as the written variety is concerned, and that's the one the Admiralty is interested in. I might as well send them a paper containing nothing but stick-figures. I think it's safe to say that I will be ordered home very soon, probably spending the rest of my days checking canvas supplies and controlling lists."   
  
Wallace didn't like the way Benham looked at the moment, pale with dark circles under his eyes. Lucas Benham the invincible showed vulnerability. The old tar had no idea how he could help his captain; maybe a bit of rum would be a good start.   
  
"How about - bending the truth, Sir? Not that I'd ever say you should be lying," he hastened to add. "Just - forget a fact here and there."   
  
"Forget a fact? Wonderful idea. Splendid. Which one, Wally? The captain in the barrel we unfortunately lost along the way? The storm only affecting our ship, or Mr. Gillette's and Mr. Jeremy's little argument? I was ordered to come here to sort out the mess Lord Cutler Beckett has left behind and clear James Norrington's name. I think it's safe to say that my mission was a complete failure. Damnation, there's another one. Can't a man at least enjoy his cabbage?"   
  
Wallace fiddled with his neckerchief.   
  
"The less you write the better. It will be just another report, read by people who have a thousand other reports to read. Governor Green won't care, and in the end, the Admiralty won't care, either. There was a storm, we survived, things happened, period."   
  
Benham stood up and winced. His back hurt, and he could feel a pounding headache coming up. He began to pace up and down the row of cabbages, knife still in hand, gesticulating wildly.   
  
"Maybe the Admiralty doesn't care, but I do! I've taken some liberty with the truth before, and I have no regrets. But I want to understand what has happened here!"   
  
Somebody was clearing his throat behind them, and both Wallace and Benham jumped. It was Midshipman Jeremy, hat under his arm.   
  
"My apologies for eavesdropping, but with all due respect, Sir, there are things we will never understand. We just have to accept them. I agree with Mr. Wallace - there was a storm, we survived. Others didn't. Such things happen every day. Forgive me for being so forward, Sir, but nobody has a right to be all-knowing. Or perfect."   
  
Benham gave Jeremy a sidewise glance. Not for the first time he had the humbling feeling of being younger than the midshipman. Calm and rational rather than full of youthful enthusiasm - Mr. Jeremy had grown up.   
  
"As much as I hate to admit it, the midshipman has more common sense than his captain. Wally, please return to the  _ Blackberry _ and see if Mr. Dee needs any help. We'll put to sea in two days, I don't want any problems."   
  
"Yes, Sir."   
  
"Mr. Jeremy, there are some things we need to discuss. Please try and step on as many slugs as possible on your way back."   
  
Jeremy obeyed, wincing every time he treaded down one of the greedy gastropods. He absolutely hated the squishing sound, not to talk of the mental image of the red, slimy mass he'd later have to scrape off his shoes. Alas, fewer slugs meant healthier cabbage, and the greener the cabbage, the easier Captain Benham was to get along with. At the end of the day, it was worth the trouble.   
  
* * *   
  
It was pleasantly cool inside the house. Jeremy, sweating under his many layers of wool, cotton and linen, sighed happily.   
  
"Mrs. Morgan! Tea! Food! And make haste, Mr. Jeremy is about to starve! As am I! Now!" Benham yelled. Mrs. Morgan peeked out off the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.   
  
"Now we can't have that, Sir, can we," she said, "would be a waste, losing such fine gentlemen! Rose will serve tea in the drawing room in no time, Sir."   
  
Benham made a bow.   
  
"You are a jewel among the housekeepers, Mrs. Morgan. One day I shall ask for your hand."   
  
Mrs. Morgan giggled.   
  
"Oh dear Sir, you always say the nicest things! I don't think my James would approve of it, though!"   
  
"Oh yes, I forgot all about James. I'm cursed, Mr. Jeremy, cursed. There's always a James standing between me and my happiness. Well then, what are you waiting for? In the drawing room, we have things to discuss and I have to prepare my little bag of lies."   
  
The two bulldogs were sleeping in front of Benham's favourite seat. They only blinked when they saw Jeremy; no need to growl, the young man was a friend of their master.   
  
"Please, take a seat."   
  
"I'd prefer to stand, Sir."   
  
"Now that's too bad for you. Take a seat," Benham ordered. Jeremy did as he was told, hat still under his arm.   
  
"You could possibly not look any more uncomfortable if you tried, could you? Mr. Jeremy, you spoke to five Spanish landsmen on the  _ Lydia _ , is that correct?"   
  
"Yes, Sir."   
  
"And they couldn't tell you anything about Captain Greitzer and the missing barrel?"   
  
"No, Sir. Not a thing."   
  
Benham clasped his hands behind his back and gave Jeremy a stern look.   
  
"Mr. Jeremy, it might have slipped your attention, but I'm not an idiot. Mr. Dee speaks Spanish fluently. He wouldn't have needed your help to interrogate the men."   
  
Jeremy looked embarrassed and lowered his gaze. Benham waited, but the midshipman stayed mum, so Benham poked him in the chest with his index finger.   
  
"Bad form, Mr. Jeremy. It is one thing to spread the rumour among the crew that your mother was the daughter of a wealthy Spanish merchant, Mr. Jeremy. I've hinted that your father was a Spanish grande, and I have no doubt that somebody will come up with the idea that you're the illegitimate son of the King of Spain. I approve of these lies because they serve your protection. But it's a completely different kettle of fish to lie right to your captain's face! Out with it, who were those men, and what did they say?"   
  
Jeremy shifted uncomfortably on his seat, clutching to his hat for comfort.   
  
"They were men who have sailed under my father's command, Sir."   
  
"Have they been loyal to him or were they among the mutineers?"   
  
"I have not killed any of them, Sir."   
  
"Means: no mutineers. Good. What did they tell you?"   
  
"They were the ones who threw the barrel overboard, Sir. And they did so by order of a lieutenant of the Royal Navy."   
  
For a moment, Benham just stared at Jeremy, then he pinched the bridge of his nose.   
  
"Mr. Dee gave them that order? Why on earth would he do such a thing?"   
  
"No, Sir. The order was given by some Lieutenant Norrington."   
  
Had Jeremy just announced that he had met a speaking goat aboard the _Lydia_ , Benham couldn't have looked more flabbergasted.   
  
" _ Norrington _ ?"   
  
"Norrington, Sir."   
  
"This must be a mistake."   
  
Jeremy shook his head.   
  
"I questioned them thoroughly, and they described the man very well. Tall, dark hair, green eyes. Old-fashioned uniform, they said. I'm not quite certain what they meant with old-fashioned, but they assured me that it wasn't the same uniform Mr. Dee wears."   
  
Benham ran his fingers through his hair.   
  
"We have now officially entered the realm of the absurd, Mr. Jeremy. Am I going insane? Tell me, do you think I'm still fit to command the  _ Blackberry _ ? Should I hand the command over to Mr. Dee?"   
  
"Absolutely not, Sir!" Jeremy protested. "You are as sane as a man can be! As I said before: some things just have to be accepted."   
  
There was a knock on the door, and Rose entered, carrying a large tray. She curtsied, gave Jeremy a quick glance and blushed.   
  
"Your tea, Sir... Sirs..."   
  
"Over here, please."   
  
Rose managed to place plates and cups on the table without dropping or breaking anything. Benham had to hide a grin; a lot of tableware had been broken in the past during Mr. Jeremy's visits.   
  
"Thank you, Rose."   
  
Rose curtsied again, with one last batting of lashes at Jeremy. No more words were exchanged for a while; both Benham and Jeremy were hungry, and the tea was excellent.   
  
Finally, Benham leaned back in his seat, placing saucer and cup on the armrest.   
  
"A nice cup of tea with six lumps of sugar. That's all I need to make me feel like a human being again. How is he doing?"   
  
Jeremy tried to switch his thoughts from 'being disgusted by six lumps of sugar' to 'Gillette' and managed to do so in under five seconds.   
  
"Mr. Gillette is feeling much better, I'm happy to report."   
  
"Has he seen sense?"   
  
Jeremy licked his lips.   
  
"He absolutely refuses to sail again, Sir, and has informed me that he will return to earn his living as a scribe as soon as he can hold a quill."   
  
"Ah."   
  
Benham patted Richard III.'s head. The dog yawned, then licked his master's hand.   
  
"It's not like this was his decision to make, he should be aware of that fact. He could be considered a deserter. Is he refusing to sail again in general or did he refer specifically to sailing under my command, Mr. Jeremy?"   
  
From the way Jeremy shifted uncomfortably on his seat and hesitated to reply, Benham could tell that the young man tried to find a polite way to give an unpleasant answer. When Jeremy opened his mouth, Benham cut him off.   
  
"Forget my question, Mr. Jeremy." He reached for the spoon and began to drum on the saucer, making the tableware clinking. "The matter will not be mentioned again."   
  
"Will you press him into service, Sir?"   
  
Benham looked up, saw the worry in Jeremy's eyes and shook his head.   
  
"An officer serving under duress wouldn't be of any use to the navy. And you know my stance on pressing men into service, Mr. Jeremy. It's just another form of slavery."   
  
* * *   
  
Gillette ignored all protests of Fort Charles' surgeon and awaited Mr. Jeremy fully dressed, sitting as upright as he could manage. He had lost weight during his illness, so his clothes were too large for him, and in his black coat he looked sickly pale. Not a pleasant sight, he could tell as much from the shocked expression on Jeremy's face upon entering the room.   
  
"Mr. Jeremy."   
  
"Sir? Thank you for allowing me to see you."   
  
"If you have come to apologise, Mr. Jeremy, I can tell you that there is no need for it. It is only a through and through bullet wound."   
  
"Sir, I don't want - what I try to say is that I did not have the intention to apologise, Sir. Of course I am very glad to see you alive," Jeremy hastened to add, "but considering the circumstances I'd act the same way under similar circumstances."   
  
Gillette smiled.   
  
"As it would be your duty, Mr. Jeremy. I certainly hold no grudge. And I have to congratulate you on your marksmanship. You should be proud."   
  
Jeremy shook his head.   
  
"There is nothing to be proud of, and I don't deserve any compliments. May I speak freely?"   
  
"Of course," Gillette said, and gestured at the other chair. "Please, take a seat."   
  
"Thank you, Sir."   
  
Jeremy sat down and put his hat on the table.   
  
"You must understand, I didn't shoot you for attacking the  _ captain _ ; I shot you for attacking Captain  _ Benham _ ."   
  
Gillette arched an eyebrow.   
  
"I don't think I understand."   
  
Jeremy looked out of the window. He could see the marines on guard, the gallows, the entrance to the office of Captain Benham. This was real, this was his world and his life now, and it wasn't easy to remember a different time, a different place, but he had to.   
  
"My name is not Jeremy. It was my mother's name, Sir, who was as a lady from Surrey, and Captain Benham suggested I should use it for my own safety. That aside, I could have never joined the Royal Navy under my real name."   
  
"Don't tell me you're the son of the King of Spain..." Gillette said.   
  
"So that rumour already exists? No, I'm not the son of a king. But the son of a man of great power, nevertheless. The year I was born, he captured no less than seventeen British and French merchants to celebrate my birth. No man enslaved more men than him, and no matter how many expeditions Britain sent out to catch him, he always beat them in battle and escaped."   
  
Gillette stared at the midshipman sitting opposite him, the respectable young man who was so proud of his King and Country and who had, without a doubt, a brilliant career ahead of him. An exemplary officer.   
  
"Mr. Jeremy, are you trying to tell me that your father was - a pirate?"   
  
Jeremy wrinkled his nose.   
  
"If my father was a pirate for capturing French merchants and making slaves, then Britain must be home to many pirates, Sir. But yes, by your definition, he is - was - a pirate. Captain Benham was on yet another mission to put an end to my father's activities, and close to the Barbary Coast, his ship became involved in a battle between my father and one of his rivals. Many men died or were injured. That miserable coward was afraid - and rightly so! - that he had no chance, so he decided to capture Captain Benham's ship rather than seeking further confrontation with my father."   
  
Gillette's head was spinning, but Jeremy continued his story.   
  
"During the battle I went overboard, and Mr. Wallace rescued me. Out of the frying pan into the fire - I was captured along with the crew of Captain Benham's ship and sold with them into slavery."   
  
"Slavery? You? Captain Benham?" Gillette asked, all appalled.   
  
"Indeed. Captain Benham soon learned who I was, and I was scared that he would tell our captors. Please don't think bad of me for being such a coward; I was still young."   
  
"Only fools are not afraid in the presence of danger," Gillette countered. "Please, go ahead."   
  
Jeremy folded his hands in his lap.   
  
"Captain Benham told his men that they should say I was one of the ship's boys. I was with them for many months. We had to work hard and were treated very badly, especially the officers. But Captain Benham, Mr. Dee and Mr. Wallace always watched over me. Once I stole bread because I was so hungry. I was caught, and they'd certainly have killed me, but Captain Benham and Mr. Dee offered to take my punishment. That's how - how Mr. Dee lost his ear, Sir. It was cut off."   
  
"Good God..." Gillette wondered what Captain Benham's share of the punishment had been, but didn't dare to ask.   
  
"One day the guards were arguing and didn't pay any attention to what we were doing. Captain Benham said this was my chance to escape, he'd make sure nobody would follow me. He only asked that I'd inform the Admiralty of his crew's fate. I promised to do so, and really, I managed to escape. Two weeks later, I was reunited with my parents, who were overwhelmed with joy. They had thought me to be dead."   
  
Just like Teddy, Gillette thought. Teddy, who had been waiting, day after day - could there be a more terrible fate? Gillette's shoulder hurt, and he could feel cold sweat on his forehead, but he had to hear Jeremy out.   
  
"And did you inform the Admiralty?"   
  
Jeremy shook his head.   
  
"No, it would have been pointless. Sometimes owners release enslaved seamen when their government pays a ransom. But the crew had been sold to a man who would have rather killed every man than set them free. No, the Admiralty couldn't have done anything to help Captain Benham and his men, but my father could."   
  
Jeremy stood up and began to pace up and down.   
  
"It was a debt of honour, you see? They had saved my life, so my father saved theirs. We attacked in the middle of the night, and it was a terrible fight. Many of our men died, and many of Captain Benham's men as well, but still, some made it back to my father's ship, and he told them that he'd allow them to go aboard the first British merchant that crossed our path."   
  
For a moment, there was silence. Gillette could tell that it was hard for the young man to finish his story; he touched his wounds to see if they had healed or if they still hurt.   
  
"Many men didn't agree with my father's decision. They said it had been foolish to attack our own people, that it was wrong to let Captain Benham's crew go. They accused my father of weakness, and he was warned that there would be a mutiny. You see," Jeremy continued, giving Gillette a helpless smile, "I was still a boy, and I admired Captain Benham greatly, for all he had done for me and the bravery he had shown. Now that I'm older, I know that my father must have had a premonition of his own death; that's why he encouraged me when I made the childish request of becoming a midshipman. Good grief, I've been such a silly child."   
  
"Wait, please. One moment. Your father was a pirate?  _ And he suggested you become a midshipman in the Royal Navy _ ?"   
  
"He must have thought that this was the only way to save me, Sir. He knew there would be a mutiny; I, as his son, would certainly have been among the first to die. He must have discussed it with Captain Benham, promised me that I would be away for only a few months. He promised that I could return home, to him and my mother, and that has been four years ago and I'm still here, Mr. Gillette! I've never seen him again."   
  
"I'm very sorry," Gillette said, and put his hand on Jeremy's arm. "I wasn't aware of your losses."   
  
Jeremy touched Gillette's hand with his own, just for a very brief moment, then he sat down again.   
  
"We found a British merchant, and Captain Benham and his crew left my father's ship, taking me with them. From that day on, I was Mr. Jeremy, midshipman. News of my father's death reached me weeks later, and I was devastated. My mother had tried to return to Britain with the help of friends, but she never arrived. To this day I don't know what happened to her. I didn't know what to do, or where to go, but Captain Benham promised me that he'd look after me, and he has kept his promise. So, Mr. Gillette, I can't tell if I had shot an officer for attacking a captain, but I would kill anybody who'd attack Captain Benham, and that I'd act exactly the same way again if I had to."   
  
For a long time, the two men sat in silence, each of them lost in thoughts. Finally, Gillette stood up, leaning heavy on the table so not to fall down.   
  
"Thank you for telling me, Mr. Jeremy. Be assured that your secret is safe with me. I will return your trust and tell you that I more than deserved that bullet. I have been selfish, neglected my duties and put the ship in danger. I should face a court martial for my deeds. Quite frankly, I do not deserve such soft-gloved treatment. I have disappointed Captain Benham, and Commodore Norrington - he would have disapproved greatly of my actions."   
  
Gillette put his hand on Jeremy's shoulder.   
  
"Men like Captain Benham are rare these days, Mr. Jeremy. It's been an honour to serve under his command; an honour I don't deserve. As soon as I'm back on my feet, I will continue to make a living as a scribe. Look after yourself, look after your captain, and Godspeed, Mr. Jeremy."   
  
Jeremy swallowed hard, then he straightened up.   
  
"Godspeed to you as well, Mr. Gillette. Is there any message you'd want me to pass on to Captain Benham?"   
  
Gillette thought of the  _ Flying Dutchman _ , of Teddy and James Norrington. He thought of the book Norrington had mentioned, of the letters he had received. But there were no letters, no proof, maybe all those events that had seemed to be so real to him had been nothing but illusions caused by the fever. Maybe the truth was that he had drifted in a dory for days, exposed to the elements, and that Norrington had been nothing but a merciful chimera.   
  
"No," Gillette finally said, "there is nothing left to say."   
  
* * *   
  
"Almost there," Teddy said. "I've never seen a man rowing as fast as Captain Turner - my apologies, the former Captain Turner."   
  
Norrington smiled.   
  
"He has a beautiful wife and a lovely son waiting for him. Certainly nobody could blame him for being in a tearing hurry."   
  
Teddy leaned on the railing. He watched Will Turner climbing up the rope ladder descending from the  _ Black Pearl _ . Bootstrap Bill followed closely behind, looking from time to time over his shoulder to see if the  _ Flying Dutchman _ was still there.   
  
"Any regrets, James? I mean, about Thomas."   
  
Norrington drummed his fingers on the railing.   
  
"Regrets? No. Not as far as my recent actions are concerned. Before that - yes, many regrets. Too many to count, Teddy, but I can't turn back time. I think I have done the right thing, and I hope he will be happy. I will miss him very much, and there won't be a happier man than me come the day he'll return aboard this ship, but still I hope it will be a long, long time before it happens." He gave Teddy a sidewise glance. "Do I make any sense?"   
  
"Oh, absolutely. Not a moment passes for me without missing Lucas, but still, I really don't want to see him here for another two decades or three. Time doesn't have any meaning for us here anyway, does it?"   
  
Norrington and Teddy could see the men gathering on the deck of the  _ Black Pearl _ . The one flailing was Jack Sparrow, of course. Norrington would have paid a lot to be a fly on the wall, or rather, a weevil in the flour aboard the  _ Black Pearl _ now; the conversation between Jack Sparrow and Will Turner would be a thing of true beauty.   
  
Suddenly, he had an idea. He turned to his first mate and shouted a command.   
  
"Aye, Captain!!" the man replied, and hurried to do as he was told.   
  
Teddy grinned.   
  
"You're an evil, evil man, James Norrington," he said. "As we have settled this now and our loved ones are hopefully on their good ways, may I finally draw you, James?"   
  
"Draw me?" Norrington thought about it, then he nodded. "Yes, I guess that's fine. Now it is." He smiled, and it was a decidedly mischievous smile. "Is that all you want, Teddy?"   
  
Teddy pulled his sketchbook out of his pocket and grinned.   
  
"Well, we have to start somewhere, James."   
  
* * *   
  
"Give me the spy glass, quick," Jack snapped at Mr. Gibbs. Something was going on aboard the  _ Flying Dutchman _ , and considering the fact that Will was here aboard the  _ Black Pearl _ and not over there on the  _ Flying Dutchman _ where he should be didn't do much for Jack's peace of mind.   
  
"What's goin' on, Captain?" Gibbs asked, shading his eyes against the sun and trying to see what happened aboard the  _ Flying Dutchman _ .   
  
"They strike their colours. Sort of. In a way," Jack replied. "Will my lad, I hope you don't mind me askin', and forgive me for bein' so curious, you know it's against my nature to stick my nose in other people's affairs, but if _ you _ 're not the captain of the  _ Flying Dutchman _ anymore, who is?"   
  
A new flag was hoisted.   
  
"I was just about to tell you, Jack," Will began, "it was actually-"   
  
"No, no, no. Don't say anythin', not a single word or by God, I'll make you walk the plank," Jack cut him off, staring at the White Ensign the  _ Flying Dutchman _ was flying. He handed the spy glass back to Gibbs.   
  
"Set course to Tortuga, Mr. Gibbs. And say a special prayer that we'll all live to the age of eighty and die ashore."


	15. Chapter 15

Rain was drumming against the windows of Governor Green's drawing room. Captain Benham didn't bother to look outside; he wouldn't have seen much more than a grey, wet curtain. The rain would stop just as quickly as it had started, a normal occurrence at this time of the year.   
  
"For God's sake, Lucas; stop the pacing. You're wearing down my carpet."   
  
"My apologies," Benham murmured, and sat down, hands folded in his lap and staring into space.   
  
Green, sweating under his wig, secretly envied Benham, who only wore his wig when absolutely necessary. Benham was of the opinion that he didn't need powdered horsehair full of lice to get respect. Such arrogance did not endear him to everybody; behind his back, many frowned upon such antics, but Benham didn't care. Lately, Lucas Benham hadn't cared for much, anyway. He seemed to be in a constant state of sorrowfulness, and Green, assuming that he knew the reason, tried to cheer the captain up.   
  
"Don't take it to your heart," Green said in a fatherly tone which grated on Benham's nerves. "Be patient, in a year or two the whole matter will be forgotten, and with a bit of luck, your two greatest opponents won't be around anymore. Admiral Smith is close to seventy and of ill health, if the rumours are to be believed. And Barclay? If he continues to run down his fortune as he did for the last two years, he won't be able to even afford the tailor for his dress coat come next spring. All in all, it could be worse."   
  
Benham looked down at his hands. He suddenly had to think of Teddy's hands, which hadn't looked like those of an artist at all. Hands more suited for a butcher than a painter, but how gentle their touch had been! Benham's thoughts wandered back to the time when he had served as a midshipman, and there was the memory of a long hand, turning the pages of a book, the memory of a heavy golden signet ring. Norrington's hand, of course. The perfect match for Gillette in its elegance, but had that touch been loving?   
  
"Enough!" Benham snapped, and hit his fist on the armrest. Green jumped, and Benham hastened to recover his poise.   
  
"Again I have to apologise. I appreciate your help, Nathan. But I have disappointed my superiors, and as expected, retribution has been swift and humiliating. I've handled many things in ways that were unusual, to put it mildly. My behaviour was tolerable for the Admiralty because those ways had been successful. Now that I have failed, they will criticise everything I do."   
  
Green didn't reply; he knew all too well that Benham was right. He hadn't been called back to Britain; the Admiralty had informed him that he should consider his current command to be a long-term one.   
  
"There could be worse places to serve, Lucas. After all, the late Governor Swann has lived here for many years, and he seemed to have liked it."   
  
"Oh, he certainly has - if we ignore the being murdered part," Benham replied tartly. He raised and resumed his pacing up and down in front of the window.   
  
"The West Indies have become my prison, and back in London, my enemies are laughing up their sleeves. I'm trapped in Port Royal, the "richest and wickedest city in the world". Maybe a hundred years ago! But look outside, Nathan: it's nothing but a mud hole, and I'm stuck in it. You should see my garden, it has turned into a sticky, brown mess, and the first thing I do before dressing in the morning is checking my shirt for spots of mildew."   
  
The second thing he did was yelling for Mr. Jeremy and asking if he had any news. He didn't have to specify what news; the midshipman knew. And every day, Jeremy would shake his head.   
  
"Now stop being so pessimistic, Lucas. After all, you have proven to be a scourge for the local pirates. Certainly that's something the Admiralty will take into account?"   
  
Benham laughed without mirth.   
  
"Chasing pirates is a Sisyphean task. For every ship we sink or capture, two other ships escape and make the life of the East India Trading Company difficult. And the honourable gentlemen of the EITC only notice where we fail, not where we succeed. It was no longer than an hour before a representative of the EITC knocked on my cabin door when we last returned to Port Royal, determined to place a long list of complaints. They know the price pepper would fetch in London, but they have no idea how difficult it is to ensure the pepper will make it to London in the first place. Pea-counting idiots, all of them. And now I've lost Lieutenant Dee as well."   
  
Green sighed.   
  
"That's the natural course of things, Lucas. Daughters marry, lieutenants become captains. Be it marriage or a command, we can only hope that we've taught them well enough so it won't end in a debacle."   
  
Benham nodded, then halted in front of the window. Considering the foul weather, Gillette would very likely not have many clients. What did a scribe do when not writing? Reading, probably. One of the many books he had purloined from the library. Norrington's library. Norrington's books. Norrington's  _ lieutenant _ .   
  
"Damned be daughters and lieutenants, Nathan. They cause nothing but trouble." He turned around and flashed a forced, yet rather convincing smile at Governor Green. "Do you still have a bottle of my favourite wine? I need to wash away the bitter taste of failure."   
  
* * *   
  
Gillette had closed his shop for the day. Nobody would come to have a letter written or read in such weather, and he was suffering from a pounding headache. He was kneeling on the floor, trying to seal off the gap under the front door, trying to keep out the disgusting mixture of mud, offal and excrements the rain had turned the small side street into. Once his work was done, he went to his bedchamber, washed hands and face, took off his shoes and stretched out on the bed, hands folded behind his head.   
  
It had all appeared to be so real, so vivid. The  _ Flying Dutchman _ , Teddy, the ship's boys - and James Norrington, of course. But it hadn't been real, and for this illusion he had deserted ship and captain, in the middle of a storm! Norrington would not have let him off the hook as easily as Captain Benham had, of this he was sure.   
  
Gillette felt guilty remembering the dreams he'd had while writhing with fever. Good grief, he would never tell anybody about them, not even write a note in his private journal! He could justify dreaming of James Norrington; after all, he loved him, and he had longed so much for having his feelings returned, even if only in a dream. But Captain Benham? It was inexcusable. Lucas Benham and Edward deVette - ridiculous!   
  
He closed his eyes and imagined the quarterdeck of the  _ Dauntless _ . Norrington would be standing there, solid as a rock, observing the goings-on aboard. It was a comforting image, and Gillette remembered the wind, the scent of sea and tar, and within a few minutes, he had fallen asleep and began to dream. The quarterdeck disappeared, as did the sea, and Gillette found himself standing next to a bed. He saw Norrington, fast asleep. He looked peaceful, a hint of a smile on his face, and Gillette was happy to be there, just looking at him.   
  
In his dream, Gillette closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, Norrington was gone. In his place he found Captain Lucas Benham, laying on the bed, fully clothed, leaning against the headboard. He was reading a book on gardening and didn't seem to realise that he had a visitor. Gillette made two steps forward, feeling like an intruder. He admired the black hair, held back tightly in a tarred pigtail; the alert, bird-like dark eyes and the freckles. Benham looked up, closed the book and ran his hand lovingly along Gillette's arm.   
  
"Nineteen, Thomas. Nineteen freckles, just like Teddy told you. Why, don't you want to stay and count them?"   
  
Gillette awoke with a start. It was still raining.   
  
* * *   
  
Bright sunshine and a fair breeze - a perfect day for setting sails. James Dee, now captain, had mentioned that fact at least twenty times within the last hour.   
  
"A fine ship," Benham said. "A very fine ship indeed; not even her name can derogate from her glory."   
  
Mr. Jeremy chuckled, but immediately stopped doing so and cleared his throat when he caught Dee's glare.   
  
"She has forty guns, Captain Benham," Dee countered stiffly. "And I can assure you that I don't have the intention of using them for firing berries."   
  
Benham had to smile.   
  
"My apologies. It was not my intention to insult your ship. I'm very happy to see you as the captain of HMS  _ Redcurrant _ . Your promotion was overdue, I'm very relieved that my recommendation didn't harm your career."   
  
Dee caught the bitter undertone, and he had a hard time not to show his anger with the Admiralty. Of course he was happy about his promotion, and the prospect of returning home and being closer to his family was a joyous one as well. But seeing a man like Captain Benham stuck here in Port Royal angered him.   
  
"I hope we will meet soon again, and under happier circumstances. Just imagine - the  _ Blackberry _ and the  _ Redcurrant _ , fighting side by side!"   
  
"Don't decry it, Captain Dee. We'd possibly find ourselves in a  _ jam  _ rather quickly. I'm delighted to see a brother officer succeed, but it goes without saying that I'm significantly less enthusiastic about the loss of my capable first lieutenant."   
  
Dee bowed his head politely, secretly proud of the compliment.   
  
"How is Mr. Humphrey doing, if I may be so bold to ask?"   
  
"Lieutenant Humphrey can tell bow from stern, so I shall not complain. By now he has given into the terrible fate of serving aboard a ship where the cat stays in the bag, and if he could stop sulking about that fact within then next two or three months, I'd be satisfied."   
  
Jeremy pulled a face behind Benham's back, and Dee frowned.   
  
"With all due respect, that doesn't sound very encouraging."   
  
"As the second lieutenant prefers writing love letters and petitions to naval life, I should count myself lucky to have a first lieutenant at all," Benham replied tartly. "Lieutenant Reynolds and Lieutenant Peterson have been transferred to other ships; I had a hard time keeping Mr. Jeremy aboard the  _ Blackberry _ . Beggars can't be choosers. Enough now, put to sea. I'm a busy man and can't stand here twaddling all day."   
  
Dee knew Benham well enough to read between the lines. His former captain would miss him, and while proud of his achievements and looking forward to his new duties, Dee was genuinely sad to leave Benham behind.   
  
"Well then," he said, trying to look unperturbed, "let's tickle the tiger, as they say."   
  
"I have no idea in what part of the world tickling a tiger would be considered to be a wise thing, Captain Dee, but by all means, go and do it, if it makes you happy."   
  
A short nod, then Dee crossed the gangway to HMS  _ Redcurrant _ , his first command as a captain. Benham and Jeremy stayed on the jetty and waited until the  _ Redcurrant  _ had left the port. None of them said a word, but when they saw Dee looking over his shoulder to check if they were still there, both men took off their hats and bowed their heads.   
  
* * *   
  
Captain Lucas Benham wasn't happy, and the reasons were not solely career-related. He had learned that Elizabeth Turner had left her house, carrying her young son. Two large bundles with her worldly possessions, so the neighbours said, had been carried by William Turner, the former apprentice of Mr. Brown, the blacksmith. The fact that Mr. Turner was supposed to be dead for well over two years caused a lot of tongue-wagging, but Benham ignored the gossip. Elizabeth Turner had very likely found a new lover. Who could blame her for choosing a man who looked like her late husband? Weirder things had happened. For example dead James Norrington appearing aboard a vessel of the East India Trading Company, or Thomas Gillette returning from the dead in a dory of the  _ Flying Dutchman _ .   
  
Benham was not prone to superstition. Facts were facts. Not all of those facts were suitable for the Admiralty back home to know. Going through James Norrington's journals - not his private one, he would never touch it again - he learned that his predecessor had created a fictional world. James had realised that things happened in this part of the British Empire that people at home wouldn't understand, and that reporting truthfully would have been dangerous to him.   
  
James had been between a rock and a hard place. The illusion he had created for his own protection - and, knowing his old friend, for the protection of his loved ones in the first place - made him look incompetent in the eyes of his superiors back home in Britain. His chivalry had contributed to his downfall. No doubt it had been very honourable to give Captain Jack Sparrow a day's head start, but honour didn't count for much in a world where a man's word had lost its worth.   
  
And Thomas Gillette was the same type of man, honourable to the point of stupidity. And stubborn as a mule. Maybe he should-   
  
"Captain Benham? Sir?"   
  
Benham blinked. From the impatient tone he could tell that Lieutenant Humphrey had very likely asked him something quite a while ago. He had no idea what the question had been.   
  
"My apologies, Mr. Humphrey. I've thought about the letter regarding the canvas supplies in Montego Bay. Would you be so kind and repeat your question?"   
  
"I inquired about the powder monkey, Sir."   
  
"Powder monkey? We have more than one."   
  
"I don't know his name;" Humphrey replied, sounding insulted. Knowing the powder monkeys by name certainly couldn't be of any importance to a first lieutenant! "He's small and red-haired."   
  
"Scottish?"   
  
"No, Sir."   
  
"Young Jacob Fields that would be then. What about him?"   
  
"He's in dire need for a good hiding, Sir."   
  
Benham clasped his hands behind his back.   
  
"There is no such thing as a 'good hiding' aboard my ship, Mr. Humphrey."   
  
"Yes, Sir, but still, that lad needs to be disciplined. He's impertinent and ignores my orders."   
  
"He is? He does? What terrible crime has he committed?"   
  
"I turned down an unreasonable request of his, but he refuses to accept my decision."   
  
Humphrey's anger was obvious; wasting so much of his precious time talking about a powder monkey! Benham, who knew each man aboard his ship by name, didn't like this attitude.   
  
"What did he ask for, Mr. Humphrey? A cabin of his own? Command of the  _ Blackberry _ ?"   
  
"No, Sir, he wanted to talk to you."   
  
"He did? And what was the unreasonable request?"   
  
"But Sir, I-"   
  
Benham's eyes narrowed.   
  
"Mr. Humphrey, I know how the chain of command works nowadays. It doesn't work for me, though. Please forgive me, I'm very old-fashioned, and every man aboard this ship, be it lieutenant or ship's boy, has the right to talk to me. I wouldn't want seven powder monkeys to approach me at the same time asking for an extra ration of rum, but if Jacob Fields or anybody else petitions to talk to me, I expect you to inform me. This has been a rule aboard this ship since I've taken command, and I don't have the intention to change it. Have I made myself clear, Mr. Humphrey?"   
  
Humphrey gnashed his teeth, but he nodded.   
  
"Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir."   
  
"Good. Then go and tell Mr. Fields that I wish to see him in the great cabin.  _ Now _ ."   
  
"Yes, Sir."   
  
Humphrey rushed off, face red like a cooked lobster, and that wasn't due to the hot weather.   
  
"Idiot," Benham muttered on his way back to his cabin, and for the umpteenth time he lamented the loss of James Dee. To Humphrey, the men serving aboard the  _ Blackberry _ were little more than possibly dangerous animals, and the fellow officers, including the captain, obstacles on his way up. Humphrey didn't belong aboard the  _ Blackberry _ . He wasn't the kind of man the navy needed. But despite this, Humphrey would very likely be an Admiral years before Benham.   
  
* * *   
  
"Mr. Fields, this is not a court martial, you are talking to your captain, and at your own request. I might hang you from the yardarm, though, if you shouldn't stop fidgeting immediately."   
  
"Yes, Sir," the boy stammered, stepping from one foot to the other. He stood in front of Benham's table, a bundle of rags tucked under his left arm. "I'm very sorry, Captain Benham, Sir. Lieutenant Humphrey was very upset wi' me, Sir. He said no I can't see you but I thought 't was important, so I ask'd again an' now I'm here an' I'm very sorry, Sir."   
  
Benham folded his hands on the table.   
  
"Breathe, lad. If it's as important as you think, you should take the time to tell me. Have you been ill-treated? Is anything amiss? Anybody you want me to get hanged?"   
  
"Oh no, Sir! No, not at all! Ev'rythin's fine, Sir, well, most of it, anyway. It's about this, Sir. Found it an' thought it's important."   
  
He hesitated a moment, then held out the small bundle of rags. Benham arched his eyebrows, took the offered tatters from the boy's dirty hands and placed them on the table.   
  
"I'm not quite sure I understand, Mr. Fields. Are you of the opinion that I need a new cravat?"   
  
The boy chewed his lip and wiped his hands on his loose trousers.   
  
"Found it with the cleanin' rags, Sir, an' thought it shouldn't be there. It's from the frock Lieutenant Gillette wore when we found him, an' there's somethin' which might be important, you know? Sir, I mean."   
  
Benham looked at the bundle. He took the rags apart and now he could see that Fields was right; those were remains of a uniform coat. A piece of a sleeve, a dirty white cuff and a piece of blue wool, plus two buttons.   
  
"In the cuff, Sir," Fields added helpfully. Benham looked up, nodded, then reached between the two layers of wool. Something was there, something - paper? Benham opened the buttons and pulled out a bundle of letters. He stared down at his find, recognising the neat penmanship immediately.   
  
"Thank you, Mr. Fields. You have done well to inform me."   
  
Fields grinned.   
  
"Good to know it was somethin', Sir. Thought letters, well, they might be important, what with the uniform an' all."   
  
"Did you read them?" Benham asked.   
  
"Oh no, wouldn't dream of doin' such a thing!" Field protested. "Can't read, anyway," he added, looking a bit embarrassed.   
  
"You can't? Well, then you'll learn it. Mr. Jeremy is a good teacher. Dismiss, Mr. Fields."   
  
Jacob Fields was too flabbergasted by the prospect of learning to read and write like a gentleman to say another word, and left with many bows. Benham stared at the letters and began to examine them. The addresses on most of them had been written by Gillette, there couldn't be a doubt. Others looked very old, with addresses in a spidery hand, as if a child had written them. But there was one thing all letters had in common: notes that they had been written by men serving "in  _ Flying Dutchman _ ".   
  
Benham picked out one random letter and leaned back in his seat. He had to concentrate, focus, gather himself. This was an enormous thing, maybe the proof he had been looking for. He took a deep breath then he broke the seal and unfolded the letter.   
  
_ "My dearest beloved Elizabeth   
  
The last of many letters, and I'd never dared to hope you'd ever receive even one of them. May they make it easier for you to await my return, I count every day until I'll see your lovely face again. Give my love to our son, if you should need help please don't be too proud to ask Captain Benham. James told me he's a trustable and honourable man. Just like Thomas Gillette, to whom I'll be eternally indebted for passing this letter on to you. I wish we could-" _   
  
Benham stopped reading. He carefully folded the letter and returned it to the stack. Jacob Fields' find had turned Lucas Benham's world upside down; made him question his beliefs, his decisions, his actions. The  _ Flying Dutchman _ did exist. Will Turner was aboard the ship, along with - so Benham concluded - James Norrington.   
  
Who was dead.   
  
Richard III. gave a short bark. It was his "everything alright with you?" bark.   
  
"No worries, old boy. You know, I've never shared your master's love for Shakespeare," Benham said, and petted the dog, "but for once, I have to agree: there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy. This is asking for drastic measures. Come, I need to upset Mr. Humphrey."   
  
He put rags and letters in his ditty box, then stood up and returned on deck, Richard III. close behind him.   
  
"Mr. Humphrey! Set course for Port Royal!" he ordered. Humphrey, who had just been in the process of giving one of the man a dressing down, halted mid-sentence, hand still in the air and stared at his captain in bewilderment.   
  
"Sir?"   
  
"Port Royal, Mr. Humphreys. Certainly you have heard of it?"   
  
"But Sir, we were supposed to-"   
  
"-return to Port Royal, exactly. Now there's a man of keen perception!"   
  
Humphrey opened his mouth to protest, but upon seeing the expression on Captain Benham's face, he went to carry out the captain's orders. The man was mad, it was probably better not to flurry him.   
  
* * *   
  
The heavy downpour started the very moment Benham alighted from Governor Green's coach. By the time he had made his way to Gillette's house through the labyrinth of Port Royal's many small side streets, wading ankle-deep in mud, Benham was like a drowned rat, despite his cloak. His clothes clung to his skin, and when Gillette didn't open upon Benham's repeated rapping and finally banging on the door, he began to wonder if it hadn't been a very bad idea to come here in the first place.   
  
"What's the noise?" he heard an angry voice. When he looked up, he saw a woman, sticking her head out of the window of the next door's house. She held a jerry, and had obviously planned to pour its content on the street. "Are you looking for Mr. Wilkinson?"   
  
Benham blinked, then he remembered that Gillette was a rose by another name or, if one had asked him right now, a cactus.   
  
"Yes, I'm looking for Mr. Wilkinson, the scribe. Would you happen to know where I can find him?"   
  
She gave him a suspicious glare.   
  
"Wouldn't be your business if I knew. What do you want from him? Money? Go away, he has to pay me first for the laundry!"   
  
An angry woman holding a full jerry was too dangerous an enemy for Benham, so he decided to win her over, and he knew just the right way.   
  
"Far be it from me! Would you be willing to share your knowledge regarding the whereabouts of Mr. Wilkinson if I'd paid what he owes you? If your answer should be to my satisfaction and if you put that jerry away, I might even add a coin or two."   
  
Another glare, then a smile.   
  
"You are too friendly, Sir. Now that you mention it, I think I remember now where to find Mr. Wilkinson."   
  
"How much does he owe you?" Benham asked, and she named a ridiculously low sum. Things were obviously not going well for Gillette if he couldn't even pay for his laundry! Benham reached in his pocket and found a coin, worth far more than Gillette's debts. The woman caught the money just as deftly as Benham had thrown it and gestured with her head in the direction of Gillette's house.   
  
"He's probably asleep. Doing that all day, sleeping. No wonder he can't pay his bills, head always in the clouds. The door's not locked, just enter and yell for him. It's what his customers and creditors do."   
  
"Thank you for your help."   
  
She looked down at the coin in her hand, nodded and closed the window, thankfully taking the jerry with her. Benham reached for the door handle, and really, the door wasn't locked. How careless. And how convenient. Benham entered and closed the door behind him, stepping over several rags on the ground. Quite obviously, Gillette had tried to keep the dirt of the street out. It was very likely that he wouldn't appreciate the mud puddle that began to form on the floor, originating from Benham's dripping wet cloak and dirty shoes.   
  
Benham looked around, but there wasn't much to see. A standing desk, two chairs, a small table, a bookcase. The latter probably containing some of the books Gillette had taken with him from James' library. Where did Gillette eat, in the kitchen? And who was cooking? The same woman doing the laundry? Benham thought of the jerry and shuddered.   
  
"Captain Benham? What are you doing here?"   
  
Benham looked up, and saw Gillette standing on the narrow stairs. He looked bleary-eyed and dishevelled, probably just awoken from deep sleep, but still, Benham's heart skipped a beat or two. Realisation how much he had missed Gillette hit him with full force, and he tried to hide it behind a façade of grumpiness.   
  
"Why, seeking shelter from the foul weather, what did you think?" he grumbled, and threw his hat on the table, followed by his cloak. "If I have to drown then during battle, not outside your front door, which, I have to point out, wasn't locked."   
  
Gillette ran his hand up and down the banister, but otherwise he didn't move. Benham shook his head, sending drops of water flying. He could feel his pigtail clinging to his neck and shoulders, the soaked bow adding to its weight.   
  
"Good grief, now do me the favour and come down here, Mr. Gillette. I didn't go out in this beastly weather to admire your bookcase. Are those my books? I guess so. If you don't mind, I'll have Mr. Wallace come and fetch the ones about gardening tomorrow. My garden is in a lamentable state. The trick with the beer worked, by the way. Very cunning. Now will you come here, for crying out loud?"   
  
"What are you doing here?" Gillette repeated his question, slowly walking down the stairs. "Is anything amiss?"   
  
Benham was tempted to yell "everything is amiss since you've left, you idiot!". Of course he didn't do it, but he enjoyed the thought for a moment.   
  
"I should think so!" Benham snapped. "Come here and sit down. I'm Mercury, bringing you letters from Jupiter, and you better be prepared to explain them."   
  
It was obvious to see that Gillette, still dizzy, didn't have the slightest idea what Benham was talking about. Good, he was confused. A confused and dizzy Gillette would be easier to handle. Benham took three steps towards the stairs and leaned on the banister.   
  
Gillette sat down on the stairs, and to Benham it looked as if he was talking to the man through the bars of a prison cell.   
  
"Letters?"   
  
"Yes, letters. Here." Benham reached into his waistcoat and took out a bundle of letters. Luckily, they hadn't been damaged, protected by three layers of wool and linen. "You have written most of them, and I want to know where. When. And most of all, why."   
  
Gillette hesitated a moment, then he took the stack of letters. He paled, then turned red, paled again and gasped for breath.   
  
"Oh God," he said. "Oh good God. So it is true then!"   
  
The hand holding the letters trembled. Benham waited; either he'd hear the story now or never, there was no point in hurrying Gillette.   
  
There was silence for a long while. Benham watched Gillette going through the letters, reading each envelope. The last one was open, the seal broken. Will Turner's letter to his wife.   
  
Gillette looked up. "You have read that letter?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
Again silence, then Gillette put the letters aside and folded his hands over his knees. He seemed to be far away with his thoughts.   
  
"So I've really been aboard the  _ Flying Dutchman _ . It wasn't a dream and I'm not insane."   
  
"The latter is debatable. Please tell me what happened, Thomas," Benham begged, tired of being formal. "I need to know. There is so much I don't understand. What am I talking, I don't understand anything anymore."   
  
Gillette gave Benham a sidewise glance, then he shook his head.   
  
"I can't tell you. It is something that I will never share, no matter who might ask. But there is one thing you need to know. I have met Edward deVette."   
  
If the situation hadn't been so serious, Benham might have laughed. Alas, he didn't.   
  
"Edward deVette? On the  _ Flying Dutchman _ ? What was he doing there, playing Nine Men Morris with Little Red Riding Hood? I do not find your joke amusing in the least, Thomas!"   
  
"I would never joke about such a thing. Teddy is very sorry that he didn't wait for you. But he will be there when - when you will be there. I only mention this because I feel you should know that I'm aware of the nature of your friendship."   
  
"The nature of our friendship?" Benham croaked, uncertain whether to feel relief that Gillette knew or being afraid of his reaction.   
  
A small smile showed on Gillette's lips.   
  
"Teddy told me that the only time he  really enjoyed himself as a midshipman was the day when he finally worked up the courage to kiss you, behind a barrel in the hold. Do you remember that day?"   
  
"Do I remember? How could I ever forget that day!" The kindness showing in Gillette's eyes encouraged Benham to ask the most important questions. "So he's still somewhere? Is that what your words mean, that I haven't lost him forever?"   
  
"He's still there, waiting for you. Just like Commodore Norrington - just like James will be waiting for me."   
  
Quid pro quo, Benham thought. My fate is in his hands now, and his lies in mine.   
  
"Well, that is good to know, I guess," Benham said, then cleared his throat. "And what are we doing while they are waiting? It could be a long time, after all."   
  
Gillette considered the question for a moment, then he put his hand on Benham's.   
  
"My bedchamber is upstairs. Will you join me in a minute?"   
  
Benham managed a nod. When Gillette had reached the top of the stairs, he finally could speak again.   
  
"But Thomas, what are we going to do once we meet them again and they learn about this?"   
  
Gillette looked over his shoulder, smiling.   
  
"They already know, and as you said, it could be a long time, Lucas."   
  
Benham counted to thirty - who would not have cheated in a situation like that! - then he hastened up the stairs.   
  
* * *   
  
Gillette had stretched out on his narrow bed, stripped down to his shirt, hands folded on his chest. From the corner of his eyes, he watched Benham, who took his time unbuttoning his coat and waistcoat, taking off his shoes. He hesitated a moment, then sat down on the bed and fiddled with the buttons closing the breeches over his stockings. The mud-stained stockings ended on the floor, along with the garters, and Benham looked at Gillette.   
  
"If your eyes were closed and if you held some lilies, this might as well be a wake," he said, untied his cravat and threw it over the foot end of the bed. "If you should have changed your mind, tell me now."   
  
"I haven't."   
  
He had been soft-spoken, but determined, so Benham pulled his shirt out of his breeches and took it off. This was a difficult moment; there was no way to predict how Gillette would react upon this less than enjoyable sight. It was still raining dogs and cats outside, the light was dim, maybe it wouldn't look as bad as it was.   
  
Gillette sat up. He had seen countless scars on the backs of men who had made the acquaintance of the cat - far too many - but never had he seen anything as terrible as the back and the arms of Lucas Benham. There were the familiar scars of a severe whipping, yes, but also many burn marks. They were large, the skin looked as if it was stretched too tight over muscles and bones. Whatever had caused those injuries, it must have been torture. Very likely, it  _ had  _ been torture - the price to be paid for Midshipman Jeremy's life.   
  
"How?" he asked, though he'd rather not wanted to know.   
  
"Ah, you know what it's like," Benham said with a fake flippancy that cut deep into Gillette's heart. "Some catch the pox while on shore leave, I got this. I'm better off than Dee, who actually lost something." He looked down at his hands. "Unpleasant thing, I know. It will soon be dark, maybe we should wait and-"   
  
Gillette's arms wrapped around Benham's middle, and feeling nimble fingers unbuttoning his breeches cut any further discussions off.   
  
"It's getting dark?" Gillette asked, kissing Benham's shoulder and slipping his hand inside the breeches. "Then we better hurry, or I can't see you."   
  
* * *   
  
It was pitch dark when Benham woke up. He didn't mind, he knew what the hand currently caressing his chest looked like.   
  
"It's very early," he murmured sleepily, "or rather, very late."   
  
"Morning watch. I always wake up at this time."   
  
Fingers running up and down his side, making him squirm. Benham was ticklish; a fact Gillette had found out quickly. Like a cartographer would draw a map of a continent, Gillette had mapped every inch on Benham's body, and they both had certainly had more fun with that than any cartographer or surveyor.   
  
"We definitely have more fun here than James Cook had in Newfoundland."   
  
Benham could feel Gillette's smile against his skin. A truly magnificent thing, wasn't it?   
  
"I don't think I'll ever manage to follow your mental leaps, Lucas."   
  
"I fear I'm thinking too fast. You know, it will be wonderful to have somebody to come home to."   
  
"James Cook?"   
  
"Of course not," Benham grumbled, tugging playfully on Gillette's pigtail. "You."   
  
The caresses ended abruptly, and Benham gasped when Gillette rolled on top of him. Benham took advantage of the proximity and kissed neck and collarbone, sucking and then worrying the thin flesh between his teeth. This would leave a mark, good. Gillette would complain in the morning, but wasn't such a mark preferable to have Benham's initials tattooed on his backside? Benham had to grin, feeling very territorial all of a sudden.   
  
"So the heroic captain will put to sea while the scribe sits at home and waits for his return, wringing hands and weeping?"   
  
The icy tone in Gillette's voice made it clear that the answer to this question could only be "no", but Benham was feeling his oats and couldn't resist teasing his lover.   
  
"Not only that, I also expect you to write long, sad poems full of longing and descriptions of your broken heart, and-"   
  
Gillette cut him off with a kiss; far from gentle, rather demanding and leaving no doubt who was in charge at the moment. He had thought Gillette to be shy, without much experience. How wrong he had been! Demanding and teasing, keeping him on the edge and not satisfied before he had him begging for his release. Benham loved it. And he loved Gillettte.  
  
"If you think I'll leave your side, you are wrong," Gillette hissed between two kisses. "I couldn't stay behind. I want to be by your side. Sail together, sink together."   
  
Benham cupped Gillette's face between his hands, very serious all of a sudden.   
  
"This is not possible. If you want to return to the service, that's fine. Whatever you do is fine, you are your own master. But it can't be that we are on the same ship. Maybe you have the self-restraint needed, but I certainly haven't!"   
  
This was nothing but the truth. Hook, line and sinker. Seeing him every day without being allowed to touch? "It would be torture, Thomas. Sweet torture, admittedly, but torture nevertheless. I know myself, I couln't resist temptation. A fine example that would be for the men, finding the captain's hand in the breeches of the first lieutenant!"   
  
"I'll better watch the front flap then," Gillette countered, and reached for Benham's hands, pinning them to the mattress, above his head. Again those teasing kisses, not quite touching the lips, only to surprise Benham with a kiss so hard that he could only gasp; he had feared that Gillette would put him dry and high.   
  
"You'll enjoy shore leaves all the more then. Take me with you as a lieutenant, Lucas. I know I have disappointed you, but I promise that you can rely on me. I'd never abandon the ship again, or you. Should I ever put the ship at risk, you can put me in front of a court martial."   
  
"And don't you doubt for a second that I'd do that!"   
  
That was the real problem, after all. Not the proximity, not the forced distance, but the fear that each of them would put the other's well-being over the safety of the ship, if things came push to shove. Right now it was push, though, and Benham lost all ability for rational thinking. He just gave in, allowed his lover to take the lead, and beside love and passion he could feel gratitude. No more storms to be weathered alone, and finally somebody to care for again, to look after and, though Gillette had no idea about that yet, somebody to spoil.   
  
Of course none of the two lovers noticed when the key in the lock of the front door was slowly turned, effectively locking the door and keeping out customers, creditors and nosy neighbours. Benham might have been puzzled had he known about this, but not Gillette - he knew that James Norrington was a man who protected his loved ones.   
  
* * *   
  
EPILOGUE    
  
Sally knocked on the door, but there was no reply. Mr. Wilkinson had to be there, though; she heard him shifting furniture around. How unfortunate, hopefully he wasn't busy, for she had received a letter by her father only yesterday.   
  
When she heard a muffled curse, she opened the door and peeked into the room. Mr. Wilkinson was hidden by a bookcase, she could only see a black shoe and a white-stockinged ankle.   
  
"Mr. Wilkinson, are you here?"   
  
Books were dropped, Sally heard a thud and then another curse.   
  
"What the..." Mr. Jeremy began, rubbing his head which he had just bumped on that bloody bookcase, but he didn't finish the sentence. One could possibly not yell at a young lady. A very pretty young lady, as he couldn't help but notice.   
  
"I'm so sorry! I didn't want to disturb you," Sally said, taking two steps back. "I've been looking for Mr. Wilkinson."   
  
"Mr. Wilkinson? There's no - oh, Mr. Wilkinson! But of course," Jeremy said quickly, just in time remembering Lieutenant Gillette's nom de plume. "I'm afraid Mr. Wilkinson is not here, Miss...?"   
  
"Cotton. Sally Cotton - Sir. When will he be back?"   
  
Jeremy tried to brush the dust off his sleeves as discreetly as possible. Why did pretty girls always have to notice him when he had a smudge on his face or a ripped shirt?   
  
"I'm afraid he won't be back for a while, Miss Cotton. We are here to fetch his effects, actually."   
  
Jeremy gestured behind him, and now Sally saw two seamen, hauling chests through the backdoor and loading them on a cart.   
  
"Oh," she said, looking crestfallen. "That's very sad. He was always so kind. Who will write and read my letters now?"   
  
"Well, there will certainly be another scribe," Jeremy tried to comfort her.   
  
"There is one, but he charges thrice the money Mr. Wilkinson did, and now I have a letter here from my father, and Mr. Gales also charges for reading letters." She blushed. "We don't have that much money, you know."   
  
Jeremy didn't like to see a young lady in distress, not at all. He pushed a strand of hair out of his face and gave Sally a sheepish smile.   
  
"Maybe - if you don't mind - I could read it to you?"   
  
"You would do that?" Sally was all excited. "You really would? But I don't have much money with me, and..."   
  
"...and what gentleman would take money for making a young lady smile?" Jeremy said gallantly. It was a good thing he had his back turned to the two seamen who rolled their eyes and mockingly pursed their lips. Sally glared at them, and if Jeremy had looked away for even a second, she'd poked her tongue out at the two tars.   
  
"Why, that would be just wonderful!" Sally took the letter out of her basket and gave it to Jeremy.   
  
The young man made a big procedure of opening the letter and then reading it aloud. It was a short letter, a typical letter of a sailor sending his love to his family and writing about everyday life aboard a ship.   
  
Sally didn't really listen, she just sat there, gazing at the elegant young gentleman with the lovely voice. Not that Mr. Wilkinson's voice hadn't been lovely as well, but it didn't compare to the one of-   
  
"Please forgive my curiosity, but may I know your name?" she interrupted him.   
  
"Oh, I forgot to introduce myself! How thoughtless. Jeremy. I mean - my name," Jeremy stuttered.   
  
"And your surname?"   
  
"Jeremy would be my surname. I'm midshipman in HMS  _ Blackberry _ . The - ship."   
  
"You are very kind, Mr. Jeremy, and such a gentleman."   
  
"Not at all, Miss Cotton. Indeed, should you ever need my services again, please don't hesitate to seek me out in Fort Charles." Jeremy considered his words for a moment, then he added: "Of course in company of your mother."   
  
Sally gave him her sweetest smile and batted her lashes. She would definitely seek him out, and of course in company of her mother. Well, the first two times. A good thing her new dress would be finished next week, and if he was as kind as she thought him to be, she would write him a letter when he was at sea.


End file.
